Fairy Tale
by Kitori
Summary: *PG-15* Joren as a squire is given a task he's not exactly thrilled with. A little slash, a little swearing, a little shounen-ai.
1. Prelude

Fairy Tale

Prelude

"I told you, there's no bloody way! How DARE you?!" Paxton rolled to the side, dodging yet another vase by mere inches. It shattered harmlessly against the wall, pieces flying to meet the rest of the shards already scattered across the fine Persian rug.

"Damn it, Joren, that one was expensive!" he yelled crossly, rising and dusting off his velvet tunic. "Next thing you break comes out of your allowance!" His squire clenched his fists, breathing heavily. Between the boy's cheeks, rosy from the outburst, and his pale cornsilk hair in delicate disarray, Joren looked the part of the vengeful angel, an ethereal harbinger of...broken pottery.

"The hell I care!" Joren shot back. "What in Mithros' name were you THINKING?! Do you honestly believe for one second that I would ever even consider agreeing to some crackpot idea like that?" Viciously he sent the wood-handled scroll flying at his knight-master, scoring a hit on Paxton's forehead. "If you think it's such a bloody good idea, you do it!"

"Don't be silly." As the rest of the pottery was out of Joren's reach, Paxton deemed it safe to approach his irate charge. "You must realize you're the only person in his Majesty's service who could pull such an important task off properly." Logic demanded he appeal to Joren's better nature, if there was one. He retrieved the scroll and handed it to his squire, who accepted it the way one might accept an angry python.

"Do you have any idea what this would do to my reputation?" Joren screeched, tossing it behind him. It hit an exact replica of a Tsiang Dynasty earthenware vessel, which tilted precariously over the ledge. "I'll never hear the end of it!" He stomped his foot for emphasis, sending the pot teetering and crashing to its doom.

"Your reputation can hardly get much worse," hissed Paxton. "And may I remind you that your primary duty is to me, your knight-master. Or would you prefer I relinquish you to another?" Joren scowled and shook his head. As knight-masters went, they didn't get more lenient than ol' Paxy. Another knight would insist on being addressed as 'my lord,' run him into the ground with training and menial labor, and probably even make him wake up before noon. "That's what I thought. Now pick up this mess."

Joren let out an exasperated sigh and complied, perplexed not for the first time at Paxton's bizarre belief that servants' work was good for nobles. Paxton watched Joren's reflection in the large bay windows that made up the eastern wall of his apartments, as it gingerly picked shards from the burgundy carpet.

"I'm busy enough without this stupid charade," Joren muttered, tossing a pile of ceramic bits into the waste-bin. "I have training, running about on your stupid errands, not to mention a job." Said job being the consequence of a rather phenomenal debt, the price for attempting to trick a certain lady-page out of becoming a squire—and getting caught.

"You don't need that job. As I recall, your parents offered to pay the debt for you, the only condition being that you asked them nicely."

"And as I recall, I haven't spoken to them since I was eight. I'm certainly not going to crawl back to them now." Joren's temper was returning, and Paxton realized too late that a group of delicate porcelain figurines were helplessly decorating the end table of his sofa.

"Fine," sighed Paxton, running a large callused hand through his corn-yellow locks, which were considerably fewer in number since Joren's arrival. "I'll make a deal with you." He briefly wondered if all knight-masters had to bribe their squires into performing services for the king. If so, there ought to be a rule against it. "If you do this...I'll pay for one month's worth of your debt."

Joren considered, candlelight flickering over his features. Paxton held his breath. "All right," he conceded finally. "But only if you SWEAR nobody will find out."

"Only you, me and King Jonathan will ever know," Paxton promised, internally sighing in relief on behalf of his figurines. He would have to replace the vases tomorrow afternoon.

"Cross your heart, hope to die, stick a needle in your eye?" And the boy couldn't figure out why he was always mistaken to be so much younger?

"How childish—fine. But you'd better do a very convincing job."

"Whatever." Joren grabbed the scroll from the floor and flipped it experimentally before heading toward his bedroom. "'Night."

"Brat," thought Paxton, shaking his head. "One of these days he'll wind up dead or institutionalized."


	2. Chaconne

These characters belong to Tamora Pierce. The plot belongs to me : )

Fairy Tale

Chaconne

Guillam's, acclaimed as the finest (and most expensive) eating-house in Corus, was located in the business district of Corus on Rue du Chien. A great wooden house graced with tangles of ivy, climbing roses and trumpet vines, Guillam's was two stories tall with stained rose windows and a walking garden in back. About twenty minutes' walk from Sir Paxton's apartments in the palace, the restaurant was also known for its waiting staff, comprised of beautiful young men and women. It was rumored that fine appearance accounted for two-thirds of the requirements to gain a position. The waiters and waitresses of Guillam's made more in an hour than some poor families made in a month, which was the main reason Joren had applied for a position there to begin with.

Pushing the door to the employees' entrance inward, Joren stepped from a grey drizzling April afternoon into a bustling kitchen, warmed by a stone fireplace on the leftmost wall. Hanging his green coat on a hook located next to the door, the teenager smoothed out his uniform. Each employee's uniform had been specially designed for the individual by the owner's private tailor. Joren's consisted of a deep cobalt silk tunic with silver lining, a mandarin collar and silver frog fastenings to the waist, which was tied with a marigold sash. The sleeves ended in wide folds beneath his elbows, rolled up to expose the lining. Silk black pants tucked into calf-high, elk-hide boots.

"You're here? Five, six and seven," greeted a voice at Joren's side. A tall young woman with curly black hair and large rubicund lips reached past him to pluck a shawl from the rack.

"Hey Claudia," he replied, accepting the notebook she offered. "Is it full?"

"No, five and six are empty. Some guy's at seven, but he's alone so far. You've got an easy shift." Joren nodded and walked into the main dining chamber.

The main room had lush green carpeting and was softly lit by glowing lanterns containing the flickering silhouettes of live fireflies. Running the perimeter was a stone-lined koi pond, filled with serene orange and black spotted fish, and in corners and hanging above tables dangled elaborate wicker birdcages containing brightly colored canaries. A staircase located in the center spiraled upward to the second story.

Joren strode across the room to his assigned area, neatly dodging a few well-meaning gropes from overly friendly diners. Just because the atmosphere was cultured didn't mean the customers were. He spotted his customer, seated opposite the entryway and beside the pond, back facing him. The waiter stifled a laugh.

*_Is this guy color-blind or what? It looks like the Easter bunny threw up all over his wardrobe. And what's with that hair? Is he trying to smuggle in a cocker spaniel? Shakith, he must have the same tailor as Queenscove or somethi--HOLY CRAP!*_

The customer turned to face him. "Joren!" exclaimed an all-too-familiar face. "I was hoping I'd get to see you!" The lanky 18-year-old with shoulder-length mouse-brown hair and a long nose smirked.

"Queenscove." Joren ground the name out with the expression of one nibbling stale dog food. "What. are. you. doing. here."

"Friendly as ever, eh? I got a gift certificate for this place for my 18th birthday. Now that you're here, let's get started, eh?"

"The hell we will!" snapped Joren. "Go get a new ta--"

"Ah-ah-ahh!" Neal shook his finger. "As my server, you really ought to be more polite, or I may be inclined to have a word with your manager." He smiled a sweet, totally unbecoming (in Joren's opinion) grin. Joren clenched his teeth.

"Very well," he conceded, voice strained. "Can I get you anything to drink...sir?" he added belatedly as Neal's brows went up.

"Actually, I'm ready to order," the brunette replied. "I'd like...hmm...the Dauphin's Special. With a glass of Mur-de-Ronce wine on the side."

*_The most expensive. I'm sooooo impressed,*_ snarled Joren to himself. "Anything else, sir?" he asked out loud, scribbling the order onto his notepad. *_I bet he doesn't even know what the Dauphin's Special is. Wait 'till he finds out...heh heh heh...*_

"That'll be all for now," replied Nealan with a dismissive wave of his hand. Joren scowled and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Three hours later...

*_WHY does he keep talking to me?_* Joren moaned internally. Tuesday nights were slow at best, and the guests usually preferred to sit upstairs or outside, but for Nealan to be his only customer ALL DAY? And he kept talking and talking and talking.

"Joren? You didn't answer my question. Am I going to have to have a talk with your manager about your manners?"

"Who am I going with to the Summer Festival?" repeated Joren. *_None of your business, that's who*_ "I don't know, I haven't asked anyone yet."

"Well, /I'm/ going with Keladry."

_*Lovely, but shouldn't you be going with a girl?* "_That's nice."

"Say, this meat's a bit cold."

*_It couldn't possibly be because you've been running your mouth for the past hour..._* "Would you like me to get you a new plate?"

"No, that's alright. So, I hear your knight-master's asked you to take part in the mission. So are you the one who's going to--"

"Oh, look, your glass is empty! Let me go refill it!" *_How does HE know about that?!*_ Joren grabbed the glass and walked hurriedly back to the kitchen. *_Sir Paxton said he wouldn't tell anybody! If that old coot lied, he'd better watch out. I ought to replace his dental floss with piano wire...*_ He refilled the glass and returned to Nealan's table. He'd been refilling the other squire's glass all night...*_that dog-brain drinks like a fish. I wonder if he knows refills aren't free.*_

"Good, you're back. Now about that job..." Neal smiled, a phenomena beginning to grate on Joren's already frail nerves. *_He must have been planning to ask me about this all along. Hm, if he gets anything out of me I'll castrate myself and enter a convent.*_

"Say, Neal? Do you happen to know exactly what that is you're eating?"

Neal paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "You mean the Dauphin Special? The menu said it was seafood."

"Oh, it is. But do you know what /kind/ of seafood?" The older boy shook his head, suddenly suspicious. *_This ought to be good for a laugh.* "_Well, I'll give you a clue since you've been such a courteous customer. It's made of something large that lives in the ocean but is unable to swim."

"Clams?"

*_Hehhehheh__.*_ "No. Here's another clue: It starts with 'B'..."

"Barracuda? No, they swim."

"...ends in 'S'..."

"Bass? Oh, those swim too."

"...and has 'oiled squid tentacle' in the middle." Nealan's pallor, about the same avocado shade of green as his meal, was well worth the three-hour annoyance.

"Check please," the boy gasped.

"I have it right here." Joren produced the item in question with a flourish. "Let's see...the total, including one Dauphin's Boiled Squid Tentacles Special and three bottles of the fifth most expensive wine on the house...comes to $283.67. Oh, and don't forget the 15% tip." He smiled, gratified to see Neal turn a shade paler, resulting in a mint-colored complexion. "Oh, no! It appears your gift certificate only accounts for $150..." He shook his head, trademark smirk back in place. "If you'll excuse me, sir, you'll need to have a talk with my manager."

To be continued...

/*  Revenge is sweet, ne?  Thank you for the lovely reviews (I LOVE YOU!) and please keep reading.  */


	3. Intermezzo

// These characters belong to Tamora Pierce. The plot belongs to me : )

Fairy Tale

Intermezzo

The following morning saw Joren wake with a smile on his face. It lasted for about a minute until he realized the cause for his awakening was not the hourly toll from the bell tower but the sparrows who had decided to move into the other side of the wall and set up nest beside where he placed his skull each night.

"DAMN AVIANS!!" he screamed, pounding against the wall. "One day I'll eat your SOULS and every morning in Hell you'll wake up at the crack of dawn to ME and my BATTERING RAM!"

Joren was not what is considered a morning person.

Unwinding from the sheets and landing with a graceless thud on the cold stone floor (innate grace was only useful for impressing people with), the squire crawled haphazardly to the washbasin and splashed water on his face. He paused a moment...something was off...oh.

Breath.

"ARIOSE!!! I told you, this is NOT a litter box!" A whine sounded from the other side of his bed, and a sleek, black and white Husky dog poked her head around the foot. She whined, approaching Joren with tail tucked between her legs. Joren glared.

"Bad dog! That's gross." He grabbed the basin, walked to the window and flung it wide open with one hand. The boy sloshed the sullied water over the side into the Royal Gardens, ignoring the indignant shriek from below, and closed the glass. Refilling the basin with fresh water from a pitcher sitting by the door, Joren reached out and knocked Ariose lightly on her broad skull. "Next time let yourself outside," he instructed, and set to the task of washing his face vigorously. He was in an astonishingly good mood, considering he hadn't done anything wicked/amusing (they were equal in his thinking) lately.

It wasn't until breakfast, always an adventure, that Joren remembered the cause of his elevated frame of mind. Stabbing a slice of bacon before it managed to crawl away (Sir Paxton meant well, but didn't cook it), he recalled the deal his manager had reached with the miffed Queenscove the day before. Since the lad was from a well-known family ("one of the four major families blah blah blah") and had the identification to prove it, his boss had agreed to let Neal pay the debt the following day to Joren, who would then deliver it to the restaurant. And if Nealan agreed to forget he had ever heard about a certain TASK, Joren would see to it that the money actually arrived there. Having no morals made things so much easier.

Joren stood. "I have to go," he told Sir Paxton, who was dozing facedown in a bowl of whey. The knight stirred and muttered.

"Some more coffee, Kathleen, there's a good girl." Joren blinked.

"What?"

"Mm, then we can go back to bed, hm?" A scowl formed on the squire's face. *_Is he mistaking me for a girl AGAIN? This is really quite unacceptable._* Joren liked to think that just as he was gaining an education from his master, his master was gaining one from him as well. Therefore, just as Lord Paxton was permitted to command, punish and occasionally beat Joren, the boy felt completely justified in "disciplining" his beloved knight-master.

"Sure, Paxy-honey!" he chimed cheerfully, lifting the pot of steaming coffee. "Nice and hot, just how you like it..." And carefully, slowly, he poured the piping hot liquid into Sir Paxton's lap.

***

"That man has no sense of humor," muttered Joren to himself, rubbing his hind end. He had run, but not quickly enough. The beating, however, was unable to remove the smile from his face when he thought of the proposal he would make to Nealan. "Where is that smart-ass anyway? Ahh, perfect."

Queenscove was lounging on a wide bench along the paths of the gardens, as were Prince Roald, Cleon and Keladry. _*This opportunity is too great to be passed up,*_ thought Joren with a wicked smile, changing direction and approaching his classmates.

"Good morning," he yawned cheerfully. The four looked up, expressions ranging from shock to puzzlement.

"Good morning, Joren," Roald greeted politely. As a prince he was required to be polite, especially to a son of the wealthiest family in the realm. "Err, won't you sit down?"

"I'll stand, thank you," replied Joren with a sly smile. "My bum is still rather a bit sore--" No lie there. "--and I didn't catch much sleep last night." He allowed his gaze to rove over the teens' surprised faces, and lingered on Queenscove's. His smile widened. "Oh yes, speaking of last night, _Nealan_..." Queenscove's eyes widened at the use of his first name. Joren leaned closer to the 18-year-old, purring. "I'm sorry to have to bring it up _the morning after_, but I really do need that money."

"_WHAT?!"_ squeaked Cleon, scooting away. Roald and Mindelan stared at their friend in shock.

"Huh? No, wait! It's not like /that/ or anything--!" Nealan pushed Joren away. "He's twisting it out of proportion!" Joren allowed himself to fall to the ground and lie there. His eyes watered.

"You mean...you're just pushing me away?" he asked in a choked voice. "After that...that _intimate_ discussion we had?" He stared mournfully up at Nealan, who had gone a rather interesting shade of lavender.

"DISCUSSION?" repeated Mindelan, casting a horrified look at her friend. Joren was beginning to enjoy this. Hiding his face in his hands, the blonde wailed piteously.

"He...he asked me who I was taking to the Summer Festival--"

"He _*WHAT*_?!" Peeking through his fingers, Joren was gratified to see the girl's hair standing out on end and hackles raised. Queenscove had withered under her glare and the twin dagger-shooting gazes from his companions. Apparently Hot-stuff hadn't actually asked the female impersonator to the Festival yet.

"And he said he wanted to get to know me..._Really_ get to know me...and he started tou--"

"Enough!" Kel stood angrily, yanking Cleon and Roald away from the older boy. "I knew you were kind of desperate, Neal, but really--!"

"Yeah, I mean, really." Cleon shook his tousled red hair. "Sure Joren's pretty and everything, but you should go for good personality, not good looks."

Joren took offense. "Oh," the blonde commented airily, "he probably just wanted someone who looked more like a girl than Mindelan. Oh wait, that would be everybody." Queenscove snapped, and with a fearsome growl launched himself upon Joren. Who was prepared.

"Oh! Nealan! We mustn't, not right here in front of everybody!" he cried, writhing and twisting. In a tumble of bodies, no one besides them knew what was /really/ happening. "My clothes! Oh, stop it!"

"Roald! Cleon! Come on, we're leaving. It's obvious they want to be alone!" Kel walked off in the opposite direction, Roald following quickly. Cleon watched the two bodies struggling on the ground with wide eyes until he realized he was alone, and ran to catch up with the others.

With an angry shout, Queenscove detached himself from Joren's limbs and ran after his friends. "Wait! It's a misunderstanding!"

"Hey, what about the money you promised?!" Joren called after him, in a voice loud enough to gain the attention of everyone within the gardens. "MY SERVICE ISN'T FREE, YOU KNOW!!!"

To be continued...

/*  A roast-newt eating bishounen to all reviewers!  Thank you for reading and please give me any questions and comments, or just leave a review saying you liked it or something else.   Please continue to read!  */


	4. Minuet

// These characters belong to Tamora Pierce. The plot belongs to me : )

// This chapter contains some mention of slash (you know what THAT means)

Fairy Tale

Minuet

King Jonathan was uncomfortable.

He was sitting upright in one of the luxurious chairs in Sir Paxton's apartments, the room well lit by the afternoon sun. Paxton was seated in the chair beside him, and across was the squire, sprawled out along the sofa, watching the king with and indolent, lazy blue stare.

*Why am I the one who has to do this?* he thought petulantly. * Myles is the Spymaster, after all.* But the shaggy knight had found some "urgent" business, leaving Jon with the task, the instructions, and a "good luck." As the boy's teacher for four years, he knew 

exactly what it was like trying to instruct a disagreeable Joren.

Jon cleared his throat. "Squire Joren, I presume Sir Paxton has filled you in on what you'll be doing?" The blonde shrugged noncommitally.

"Joren! Sit up and answer the question!" hissed Sir Paxton. Joren propped himself up on his elbows, but that was all. Apparently he didn't find it necessary to show much respect to his sovereign ruler, but then, this sovereign ruler was more or less desperate for the boy's cooperation. Jon tried again.

"So, exactly what has your knight-master told you about this task?"

"That you want me to be girlfriend to some poofy prince and sleep with him to get information so you can blow his kingdome out of the water?" Joren was going for 'apathetic,' but his voice cracked on the word "sleep," betraying him.

"NO!" exclaimed the king, with such force Paxton started in his seat. Jon lowered his voice. "You...you won't be a /girl/ per se, but the prince of Kangen will need a dining companion and someone to show him around Corus...as well as a date for the Summer Festival." Joren arched an eyebrow.

"And if I have plans for the Summer Festival?"

"Do you?"  
Joren sneered elegantly and looked away. The king ignored him and continued. "According to our resources--" Joren made a cough that sounded suspiciously like "*spies*" which Jon chose to ignore--"his Highness of Kangen prefers the company of--of boys, and as far as that goes, his tastes run to the effeminate."

"Meaning?"

That took Jon aback. Joren ought to at the very least know the meaning of that word, considering his picture was probably next to it in the dictionary. "You know, not so buff--more, more, ahh, slender, smaller, with more delicate features..." Joren's progressively souring look could have curdled stone.

"You mean 'pretty'?"

"...yes. But don't worry," he added quickly. "As long as you get the information, you won't have to sleep with him unless you want to." 

Joren bolted up. "How DA--"

"Joren." At Paxton's warning tone, Joren shut his mouth and lay back again, scowling. Jon smirked to himself.

"...and you won't have to dress like a girl. Probably."

"PROBABLY?!! What's THAT supposed to mean?!"

"Relax, Joren," interrupted Sir Paxton calmly. "It's not like you've never done it before." Joren blushed furiously, casting a dark look in his master's direction before looking away.

"So, what's the information, anyway?" he asked, attempting to change the subject.

Jon drew a breath.

"It's complicated. In the past six months, the kingdom of Kangen has increased its military and strengthened security, as well as broken off diplomatic relations with its neighbors, the Yamani Islands, Jindazhen and the Rainy Isles. However, there has been no provocation in the slightest for them to do so. Your job is to find out what the prince's motives are and also anything you can regarding his plans."

"Won't he be expecting you to set him up with someone for this?" The boy slid into a seated position on the sofa. "He'll probably guess what I'm doing."

King Jonathan shook his head. "You're right, the prince of Kangen is an exceptionally clever man, and even if he weren't he'd still most likely catch on. However, we are setting him up with someone /else/ whom he will think is the spy. We will seat him next to this person at banquets and arrange for them to be dancing partners and to meet elsewhere on occasion. You he will meet outside the palace, and he shan't know of any affiliation with us whatsoever. Therefore, while with the other lad he'll always be on his guard, with you the prince ought to be completely relaxed."

"Who's the 'other lad'?" Joren was curious, but did his best to sound bored.

"You aren't allowed to know. You might let it slip in the heat of the moment." This earned Jon a Joren-death-glare (tm), which he ignored. "Have you opened the package yet?" Joren thought of the bundle still sitting untouched at the foot of his bed.

"No." As though it should have been obvious. Jon felt his patience wearing thin.

"Well, you need to try them on soon so Mistress Kuri can ensure that they fit perfectly."

"Whatever." Joren rolled off the sofa and gracefully onto his feet. Without bothering to bow, he began to walk towards his room.

"Where do you think you're going?" Paxton hid a smirk at the king's irate tone. Jonathan wasn't used to being treated with such blatant disregard. The blonde knight always found it amusing to watch the inexperienced interaxt with his obnoxious charge. Joren turned.

"Now what?!" he demanded impatiently. "I was *going* to try on those outfits since you were throwing such a tantrum about it." The ebony-haired king's mouth opened and closed like a goldfish. *It might make me look bad if my own squire gives the king a heart-attack,* panicked Paxton.

"Go on and do that, Joren," he replied authoritatively, as though it had been his idea. "Stay in there and I'll check on you later." The boy disappeared into his room, and Paxton turned to the king to apoligize. "Please forgive him, your majesty. Joren doesn't have what people call 'manners.'"

"Oh?" replied Jonathan coldly.

"Yes. Although I instruct him primarily in swordsmanship, martial arts, chess and other forms of aggressive combat, I devote particular attentions to his manners (or lack thereof), especially with regard to authority figures. I increaded these lessons after that 'incident' at the trial. Please believe me, his behavior has improved vastly since he began as my squire." This was true; in Joren's first week as squire he had broken Paxton's favorite vase, dyed the knight's warhorse's coat a bright blue, and set fire to the privy. A more complacent Joren who threw the occasional tantrum (and vase) and poured coffee into Paxton's lap was much easier to live with.

Jonathan rose. "I understand. It must be difficult raising that demon into something resembling human." Paxton laughed; the king allowed himself a small smile and turned to leave.

"Oh, your majesty?" Jon turned around. "Do you think he'll actually be able to pull this off?" The king paused for a moment and considered.

"Yes," he replied after a while. "Much as I hate to admit it, he's clever enough to accomplish it." *And he's not too bad in the looks department either,* he added mentally. Guessing his ruler's thoughts, Paxton grinned and bowed.

to be continued...

/*  I hope you like the chapter, please review and thank you for reading!  Any comments and questions are welcomed with confetti; please continue to read this story.  If you haven't noticed, there is a musical theme to this work ^^  The chapters are types of musical pieces, Ariose is a musical term, and Kangen may or may not be Japanese for "music" (shrug) . */


	5. Divertimento

// These characters belong to Tamora Pierce. The plot belongs to me. Some mention of slash and swearing appear in this chapter.

Fairy Tale

Divertimento

"This bites," growled Joren, rolling the stress-reliever in his right hand, thoughtlessly attempting to squeeze the life out of it. In his other hand he held the letter from his parents that had arrived this morning, when he had been out torturing Nealan, but now he faced a dilemma:

To burn, or not to burn?

Joren hadn't spoken to his parents since he was eight; he didn't exactly remember the reason. He hadn't written any letters to them, or read any, and relied chiefly on messages from his two older brothers or his knight-master to explain any delays in financial support which was, in Joren's view, their only purpose. This letter changed things, though. Maybe they were sorry they hadn't agreed to pay Joren's debt to Kel and would send apologies and a chest full of nobles. Maybe they would go further and send Turomot's head on a stick (much as Joren disliked Kel, he disliked the judge far more. Who was that ugly old coot to call him an "arrogant puppy?" Joren got the same from Sir Paxton on a daily basis; he didn't need to hear it from strangers). In which case, he could quit Guillam's (without much in the way of sorrow) and return to his former carefree, luxurious, malignant lifestyle. On the other hand, his beloved procreators might be informing him that they'd cease paying for his debts altogether, in which case he'd have to work even more than he did, which was more than he cared to admit. Not that he cared on the whole for admitting anything. "And so, I have reached an impasse," he remarked lightly to himself, and stared at the innocent envelope.

"...............ah, what the hell." He tore it open, pulled out the check, and tossed envelope and letter into the flickering fireplace beside the desk. "I'm sure one of my brothers-dearest will tell me the contents later." The blonde never remained at an indecision for long. Stuffing the check into his pocket, he returned his attentions upon the stress-reliever. It was a small, limp, squishable package containing some sort of deep red dye which mixed rather fascinatingly with itself when shaken vigorously, reminding Joren of tomato sauce and/or blood. He'd always wanted to break one open to see which of the two it more closely resembled, taste-wise. Unfortunately, his attention was distracted by Sir Paxton calling from the other room.

"JOREN! Aren't you done YET?!"

"No, my lord!" he returned cheerfully. "I have to make sure it looks PERFECT!" What a laugh. He'd only left the room so he didn't have to look at that ugly old man with a black hairball living on his chin any longer. He wasn't sure what females found so attractive about the king; ol' Jonny-boy needed first of all a shave, second of all a good lay. Obviously Queen Thayet wasn't cutting it or the guy would be a LOT less anal-retentive. So basically, Joren had retreated to his room but not bothered with the package of clothes even long enough to open it.

*_What do I have to open it for, anyway?*_ he thought. *Why did I even agree to do thi--oh wait, I DIDN'T. I guess any blame of delay can be placed purely upon Paxy's shoulders, then.* His pressure upon the stress-reliever increased. *Who do they think they are, anyway, making me flirt with some old man--presumably as ugly as they are, if not more so--to grab some information he'd probably be happy to tell them in the first place? And why ME? I'll admit I'm just too cute, but still, they ought to at least reward me for my services. Like maybe a little royal pressure on getting that stupid debt removed? Or some money to use on an assassin for the lovely Miss Mindelan. For that matter, why not use her? The gods only know, she looks more like a boy than I do. They better not expect I'm actually going to _sleep _ with Mr. Rogain or whatever his name is. If they want someone to have sex with them, it ought to be that Mindelan whore or even Garvey. Because there's no way in bloody hell I'd even consider--* GLURSH!!!

Joren hadn't been aware that "glursh" was a sound, but here he was with a hand splattered in thick, creamy red liquid. *Huh, guess I broke it after all.* He was about to turn to the water basin and wash his hand off when an impatient knock sounded at the door.

"I TOLD you, I'm not rea--" he started, but was cut off by a furious Queenscove stomping in and slamming the door behind him.

"YOU!" Queenie snarled, brown hair in disarray (well, that was normal) and glaring at Joren with pure murder in his eyes (he was used to that too, actually).

Joren raised his eyebrows. "Is something amiss?" he asked sweetly. "Or did you want to finish what we 'started' last night?" He began to loosen his belt.

"SHUT UP!" screamed Queenscove. Joren was impressed, since usually the older boy relied on sarcasm rather than capitalized swearing. Nealan stomped to where Joren reclined in his chair and pulled the fair boy up by the collar. "Kel isn't speaking to me, Cleon and Roald are avoiding me like the plague, and every single girl who sees me starts giggling!"

"I notice you didn't include Kel in 'every single girl.' Is there a specific reason for--"

"It's YOUR fault, you bastard! You've completely ruined my life!" He shook the younger boy for emphasis.

"Aww, my heart bleeds for you." Joren placed his hand over his chest, then held it up (still stained with red stress-reliever guts) toward Nealan. "See?"

For a brief moment, Queenscove's expression was priceless.

He snapped out of it. "Don't tell me," he muttered, dropping Joren and passing a hand over his temples. "Anyway, you are telling Kel the TRUTH, or I swear I will make you regret it."

"Hmm, sounds kinky. Can I hold you to that promise, or will you be the one holding ME to something?"

"STOP THAT!" Nealan backed away from Joren and began pacing the room. "Look, what do I have to do to make you realize the gravity of this situation?"

"I somehow severely doubt that you and Mindelan's quote unquote "relationship" can be considered as having gravity. Besides, there's one surefire way to get me to do anything."

Queenscove paused in his pacing. "And that would be?"

"Money. Money makes the world go 'round."

"Money corrupts," snapped Queenscove.

"It's a bit too late for that, I assure you," replied Joren with a wide smile. "Besides, don't you owe me a bit of cash anyway for that little episode at my place of business?" The older boy grimaced, pulled out a purse and chucked it at Joren.

"That ends THAT. But I refuse to pay you money to tell Kel the truth about what that little affair this morning was about."

"Hmm, you know, I like that word 'affair,'" murmured Joren thoughtfully. "I'm sure Mindelan will like it too..."

"Don't you dare!" Queenscove leaned over Joren, then kneeled and covered both Joren's hands with his larger ones. "Look, Joren, please please please tell Kel the truth, and I swear I will make it up to you."

"Really? Any way I choose?"

"No; I'm desperate, not crazy." Joren considered for a long moment before shrugging.

"Fine. But *I* will be the one to decide when your debt is paid off, not you. And if you decide to quit paying before then, I'll talk so many circles around Mindelan she won't know *what* way you swing."

"Deal."

"Good, now get your hands off me. You're creeping me out." Neal, having forgotten what he'd been holding, dropped Joren's hands like he expected to be bitten (with Joren, who could tell?).

"Do it by tomorrow morning," the brunette said, standing. "I plan to ask her out tomorrow at lunch."

***

"This one looks nice, don't you think?" asked Sir Paxton, pointing out a colorful red and orange vase with K'miri style decorations dancing around the rim.

"Hmm," replied Joren, squinting at it cautiously. "I'd have to say...it looks just like all the others I've seen so far today. Actually, in my entire life."

Sir Paxton glared at his valet. "It most certainly does not," he glowered. "Can't you see the way it's cross-hatched, the way this color seems to melt from deep, sunset hues of red to more of a burnt sienna? This is a true work of art!"

"Ten nobles says the artist had a bloody nose all over it and decided not to finish painting it." Paxton rolled his eyes. Some people just couldn't appreciate beauty.

"Wrap it," he told the store clerk, who did so and added it to the two packages already placed at the pottery shop's entrance. He cast a despairing glance at his squire, who was eying the knife-shop across the street with interest. "Joren, you wouldn't have to be bored by this vase-shopping if you didn't destroy my collection every chance you get." Joren shrugged.

"Your fault for leaving them where I can reach them."

"You aren't a three-year old."

"You noticed! Then it's about time you stopped holding my hand every time we cross the street. That's just bloody embarrassing."

"The last time I let you go without it you almost got run over by a carriage." Joren ignored his knight-master and continued his long-distance observation of the knives. Sharp, shiny things had a tendency to fascinate him. "Ahh, Raoul!" he heard Sir Paxton exclaim. "What are you doing here?" Great. Raoul meant Sir Raoul, which meant his whore/squire was with him. Stifling a moan, he turned around to see his guess confirmed. The Mindelan "girl" (he used the term loosely) stood looking at him with extreme dislike, which he returned with a rude gesture.

"Joren! Stop that! I'm sorry, it's impossible to do anything with him, he must've been raised by hurroks..." Joren wasn't sure why Sir Paxton always found it necessary to apologize for him. "Anyways, what brings you to this lovely shop? It's one of my personal favorites!"

"Oh, just looking for a gift for my mother," the titan replied, sounding embarrassed. "What with the holiday and all, you know."

"Yes, getting a gift for one's mother is ADMIRABLE," replied Sir Paxton with a pointed glance at Joren. He didn't approve of Joren's love-hate relationship with his parents (they loved him, he hated them) and never missed an opportunity to express his disapproval. "So, have you decided on anything?" Raoul showed Paxton his purchase, over which Paxton oooed and ahhhed. After the clerk had wrapped it up, the two knights decided to go out for a friendly drink.

"Joren," suggested Paxton, "why don't you and Squire Keladry go together to return these to the palace?" He never stopped trying the get the two of them to get along. Joren paused.

"Is this a trick question?"

"NOW." Joren shrugged, lifted his master's three packages, and nearly fell over backwards. GODS, they were heavy.

"Let me help you with those, Squire Joren," said a sickeningly sweet voice, as Mindelan relieved him of the two heavier packages and left him with the light one and Kel's own.

"Thank you," he replied nastily, "but I don't need a *girl's* help in carrying heavy weights, especially not *yours*."

"Oh, do you think these are heavy? Well, I don't, so I'll carry them for you." Joren didn't miss her smirk, or the stifled laughter of the two knights. He felt his ears begin to burn and without a word stomped out the door, not waiting for the Lump to follow.

She caught up with him, as he'd assumed she would, and the two fell into step (how disgusting!). "So," she began, "about yesterday morning..." He ignored her, so she continued. "Neal says you were just joking, and that if I asked you about it, you'd admit it. So were you only doing it to get on his nerves, or did you two really...you know..."

"What, fuck each other?" Fuck /with/ each other, more like it. "Why does it matter to you, Mindelan? Hoping to be his first?" Kel's face darkened for a moment, but cleared again, like it always did. Yamani training, Joren supposed. Of course, what could you expect from people who ate raw fish and wore their bathrobes to formal occasions?

"Well, if you want to know the truth, we--" He was cut off by a boy, about their age, whom he had never seen before. The lad was dressed in nice clothes, probably a merchant or a noble, and was staring at them in an expression of unveiled disgust.

"You know," he said, "it's really disgusting for girls to charade as boys and try to get their shields. Women have no place in men's affairs, and only the really ugly ones or the really desperate ones would even consider it. It's probably just the only way they can think of to get in men's beds." Joren glanced at Mindelan, whose face was Yamani-smooth, as always.

"Yeah, I agree with you," he replied. "And?"

The boy looked taken aback. "You agree with me?" Joren nodded. The lad swallowed. "Then, uh, you should stop dressing like a boy and go put on your dress. I'm sure you'd look much better as a girl, anyways. You seem really pretty." He began blushing profusely and ran off, leaving an irate Joren and an amused Kel.

"WHAT?!" screeched Joren. "Was he talking to ME?!" Kel was laughing too hard to reply. Joren set down his packages and pulled his sword from its sheath. "Nobody but NOBODY calls me a girl and lives," he swore, about to run off in search of the boy when Kel stopped him.

"Don't bother with scum like him, I get it all the time," she told him seriously, making an effort to hide her smirk. Joren grunted, replaced his sword and picked up the packages, and the two resumed walking in silence. When they reached the palace and the route where they were to split ways, Kel added, "Although, I don't think I've ever been told that by someone who had such an obvious crush on me."

to be continued...

/*  Hope you liked it.  Free rare invisible blooming flowers to those who review.  Thank you for reading and please continue!*/


	6. Sonatina

// These characters (except for the OCs) belong to Tamora Pierce. The plot and OCs belong to me. In this chapter there is shounen-ai, slash and swearing : )

Fairy Tale

Sonatina

"Hey, Joren." Joren looked up from his task of combing Paxton's warhorse.

"Hey Garvey." Garvey leaned against the side of the stall, the dark ginger of his falling curls blending with the wood. Joren put down the currycomb and gave Paxton's palomino Astral a brisk once-over with the brush. "What's new?"

Garvey shrugged, hazel eyes watching Joren's swift strokes over the beast's golden hide. "Nothing. Sir Jerel is entertaining Mistress #10, so he kicked me out of the rooms for the rest of the day." _And night,_ he added silently, returning Joren's smirk.

"Yeah? In that case I'll allow you to help me with these boxes." The blonde squire gestured to three wooden crates in the corner of the stall, two large and one smaller. "I cleaned out Paxy's last stock of vases, so he went out and got these. He's too lazy to bring them up himself."

"Alright," Garvey laughed, and moved to help his friend.

It was a long walk from the stables to Sir Paxton's apartments, even without the added burden of three heavy boxes. "Ugh," grunted Garvey, who had taken the two largest. "How can something made of painted hollow dirt be so heavy?"

"Stop complaining," commanded Joren. "You're the one who volunteered to take those two." His was the size and weight of a breadbox; Garvey's combined were that of the whole baker.

"You're just as lazy as your knight-master, you just can't get out of manual labor as easily," he accused. Matching his friend's pace, the boy noted that he topped Joren by half a foot, whereas the previous fall it had been only a couple of inches. _Thank the Gods for growth spurts,_ he thought. _It's better if I'm taller..._ "Hey Joren," he began, when a lock of his ginger hair fell into his eyes. He attempted to blow them out of the way, succeeding only in inspiring them to brush and tickle the tip of his nose. "Argh!" he growled, shaking his head wildly to no avail.

"Pa - the - tic," announced Joren, shifting his box into one hand and reaching over with the other. Garvey's breath caught as Joren brushed the lock across his forehead and tucked it behind one ear.

"Umm, thanks," he mumbled breathlessly when Joren had pulled his hand back. *Gods, am I blushing? I hope he doesn't notice...*

"Sure, you were saying?"

"Huh?"

"You said, 'Hey Joren--Argh!'" Joren reminded, mimicking his friend. Grinning, he pulled open the door leading from the gardens to the palace.

"Oh yeah." Yes, he was definitely blushing. "Well, uh, I was wondering about the Summer Festival?"

"Why were you wondering about the Summer Festival? We've attended it every year since we were ten." Gods, Joren was making this difficult. Garvey stepped through the door, which Joren held open for him.

"No, I mean, are you going? Um, with anyone?" Joren shrugged. _Well, probably, but that's top secret. Can't tell Garvey about that._

"I dunno. Probably, but I don't know with whom."

"Oh." Garvey would have fidgeted had his hands been free. As it was they were sweating profusely, and it was all the ginger-haired boy could do to keep his grip on the boxes. "Well, um, I was wondering." His heart beat rapidly, pounding against his chest. It actually hurt. "Um, that is," he stammered. "What about me? That is, uh, would you consider--oh, fuck." The hair was back in his eyes; he couldn't see a thing. He felt a cool hand brush across his forehead, pushing the hair back. Joren's.

"Consider what?" Joren asked, sweeping the ginger locks from Garvey's eyes.

Gods, was the boy dense?! "Would you go to the Summer Festival with me?" The words rushed from Garvey's mouth in a tumble, and he bit his lower lip as soon as they escaped his tongue. His heart thudded in anticipation; his entire chest hurt as he waited breathlessly for Joren's reply. But Joren was scowling.

"No." Curt and to the point, like Joren himself.

And the throbbing heart rose into Garvey's throat, choking him until he couldn't breath. "Wha--why not?" Joren looked away, continued walking. Garvey quickened his pace to catch up. "You--you said you weren't going with anyone?" Gods, he sounded pathetic, his voice whiny to his own ears. _Does he think I'm too clingy? Too--pathetic, not good enough for him?_ He blinked back tears. Surely Joren had a reasonable explanation, something that had nothing to do with his or Garvey's emotions.

"I'm not."

"Then why won't--"

"I don't feel like it." Harsh and cold. Condescending even. Garvey's arms began to shake, his entire body did. Before he realized it, there was a crash and he was running without even knowing where he was going.

Joren turned about, upon hearing the crash. "Garvey? What--WHAT THE FU--!" The boxes had dropped sideways onto the floor, and Garvey was nowhere to be seen. _I didn't think he'd take it *that* harshly,_ he thought, setting his own package down and kneeling before the crates, prying the open. "Pleaseletthembefine,pleaseletthembefine,pleaseletthembefi--SHIT!" Beautiful, colorful glass fragments glittered up at him, shimmering in the morning sun, joined by a cheerful receipt marked, "No exchanges, refunds or warrantees. All sales final." He sat back on his heels and moaned, "Sir Paxton's gonna kiiiiillll me!"

Garvey wrenched the door to his knight-master's apartments open and flew inside, only to find Sir Jerel and a tall, very beautiful, very nude redhead on the couch in a somewhat compromising situation. The woman shrieked and covered her bare breasts, and Sir Jerel sat up and glared daggers. "What the hell are you doing here?! I told you to stay the fuck out of he--" Garvey ignored both of them, striding quickly to his room and slamming the door behind him. In his own small chamber, the curtains of the huge window were pulled shut, leaving him in darkness and coolness. He stood, clenching and unclenching his fists, biting his bottom lip.

_No, no, no!_ he screamed mentally. _I won't! I will *not* cry over Joren of __Stone Mountain__! I-- He_ clenched his eyes shut, but tears leaked through anyway, streaming between his long lashes and down his pink cheeks. Without warning a sob wrenched his entire body, and he threw himself upon his bed, clutching his pillow and weeping until sleep overtook him.

***

_Maybe I ought to feel a little guilty,_ thought Joren, then decided against it. It wasn't _his _ fault Garvey took things the wrong way. _All I said was I didn't feel like going, he didn't have to go break those vases._ Upon arriving in the apartments before his knight-master's return, Joren had attempted to glue the pieces back together, but the result was something resembling an akward clay gorilla, rather than an expensive vase. The boy fervently hoped Sir Paxton wouldn't notice, then grabbed his uniform and jacket and left for work. "At least I won't have to be there when Paxy finds out," he muttered aloud, pulling the jacket over his shoulders and stepping out into the sunlit afternoon.

Joren stepped through the employee entrance, shrugging out of the jacket and glancing about for Claudia. Usually she arrived in time to greet him and exchange shifts and notepads, but the curly-haired woman was no where to be seen.

"Joren!" called a voice, and a well-dressed man with neatly combed brown hair and a suit and tie took Joren by the arm. It was Guillam, the enormously wealthy owner of the establishment. "Claudia's keeping this shift, I need you to be Eye-candy for table Three."

Joren bit back a groan.

"Yes, sir." Eye-candy was the term for when one of the staff played date to one of the customers. Sometimes Eye-candies served as someone to have a pleasant conversation with for lonely diners; sometimes they were asked to sit in customers' laps; Joren had even suffered himself to be fed by more enthusiastic customers a few times. Fortunately, as Guillam's was a dining establishment and not an inn, service was never expected to go further than that. Joren didn't mind the attention so much, but it irritated him mostly that unlike the other men who waited at Guillam's, due to his effeminate appearance Joren was usually requested by male customers. Shudder. Sighing, Joren stalked into the dining area and towards table three, near the back of the first floor and to the left of the entrance. On the way he was met by Claudia, who sent him a cheery smile and words of reassurance.

"Hey, kid, don't worry. Your guy's a hottie!" Claudia had a strange concept of reassurance. Joren scowled as Claudia took him by the arm and led him to table three. Seated at the table were three men, one in his 50s with greying hair, another in his twenties with dirty blonde hair and brown eyes, and the third, also in his early twenties, with tousled black hair and green eyes. The blonde winked at Claudia and Joren as they approached. Claudia blushed (something she didn't do often, Joren noted) and smiled at the diners. "Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Joren. Joren, these are Lord Devaux," --the old man nodded-- "Lord Blaise," --the blonde--"and..." Claudia trailed off and blushed. "I'm sorry, what was it again?"

The green-eyed man smiled. "Just Laurent," he replied softly, in a silky foreign accent, and took Joren's hand. Raising it gently to his face, his lips gently brushed across Joren's fingers, causing two circles of red to rise to the pale boy's cheeks. _Why am I BLUSHING? I've done this tons before,_ growled Joren's inner voice. Aloud, he stammered,

"A p-pleasure to meet you, sirs." His eyes swept quickly across the table, taking in the men's elaborate velvet clothing, the swords sheathed and resting against the chairs with jeweled hilts still exposed, and the three glasses and bottle of the restaurant's most expensive wine. And only three chairs, all three occupied.

"Shall I get you another chair," Claudia asked Laurent, "or would you prefer to have him sit in your lap?" Laurent eyed Joren appraisingly. Joren eyed the floor appraisingly. At last Laurent smiled.

"I wouldn't want you to go through too much trouble," he replied, moving his grip from Joren's hand to his waist and pulling the boy into his lap. "Though perhaps you could bring us another glass of wine? Shouldn't want the poor boy to be thirsty, after all." His companions laughed, and as Claudia turned to go, Blaise caught her by the hand.

"Perhaps we could meet when you leave this place?" he suggested, in the same smooth accent as Laurent. Claudia blushed again.

"Well, I live rather far away," she replied doubtfully. Blaise laughed.

"I don't. We could spend the night where I am staying," he answered, causing Claudia to go even redder.

"I'll think about it," she giggled, and hurried away. _What's with her?_ Joren wondered, but his musings were distracted by a touch. Laurent's hand had loosened Joren's marigold sash and found its way under his tunic, and currently was involved in tracing its way up his stomach.

"Excuse me," said Joren firmly, removing the man's hand from under his shirt. "So, where are you from?" Gods, these types were so odd. Best to keep the customer's mind on conversation and nothing else. Laurent seemed to take the hint and smiled, showing a mouth of dazzling white teeth.

"Kangen," he replied. "We are here on business." Kangen? Wasn't that where Joren's mission was from? This guy probably knew him, then.

"Oh? And what business might that be?" He jerked in surpise, peeled the hand from his inner thigh, and placed it on the table. Blaise and Devaux sniggered. Apparently Laurent wasn't getting the hint.

"Ah, foreign affairs. Nothing that would interest a beauty like you, I'm sure." Well, so much for attempting to gain any information. "Would you care for a drink?" Joren assented, and Laurent lifted his own glass to the boy's lips and tilted it back. Joren nearly choked as he felt fingers tracing across his throat, rubbing the bottom gently as he swallowed.

"Hey, if you don't mind--" he began, but was cut off as a finger was laid across his lips. Green eyes looked into his.

"Excuse me...was it Joren?" The black-haired man smiled. "Joren is such an 'arsh name for one such as you. I believe I shall call you Philippe." Blaise outright laughed at this, and Devaux chortled into his glass. Joren had a feeling he oughtn't be putting up with this.

"Excuse me?"

"I prefer the name Philippe to Joren. So, for tonight, you are Philippe." Joren opened his mouth and closed it again, in an accurate impression of a goldfish. The rules didn't say what to do when a customer wanted to change one's name. _I guess it won't harm anything,_ he internally scowled. _As long as he quits touching me..._

+++++

"Well, that didn't totally suck," mumbled Joren to himself as he began his trudge home. It was well past midnight; apparently the Kangenese trio found Guillam's "delightful" and Joren completely charming. Actually, "adorable" was the term Laurent had used. What a strange guy. They didn't leave until well past closing time, and Laurent had refused to let Joren go without giving him a goodnight kiss, a proclamation that had sent his friends into throes of laughter. At last they departed, heading towards the wealthy side of town, Blaise clutching Claudia around the waist. Joren had politely declined Laurent's offer of spending the night with him. "At least I'll never see those weirdos again..."

***

To be continued...

/*  I hope you liked this chapter!  If you did or if you didn't, please review or email me.  Because I love feedback….'till next time. */


	7. Concerto

These characters belong to Tamora Pierce. The plot belongs to me. : ) Some notes to my beloved reviewers!:

Jishoshojo (say that 3 times fast): Don't worry, though I may imply something will or has happened, I won't describe it or say things while its happening because that's way to brave for me and I am still a minor, after all : )

Caia: Yeah, the names are French as well as some of the streets and things (though I don't take french or anything, I hope I didn't mess them up too badly ^^;;) because when I wrote last chapter, I really liked the names Laurent and Philippe but thought it would be odd to have Laurent and Philippe with Frank and Butch. Oh, and Blaise is my dog's name (after Blaise Pascal, my parents are nerds)

QueenOfTheRogue: Heh heh heh. That was my favorite part...

Oh, and a slash warning if you didn't figure it out by now...

Fairy Tale

Concerto

"Anger anger anger," muttered Joren, a dark expression painting his angelic features as he stomped down the busy streets of Corus. Fellow city-dwellers took one look at the scowling moon-haired boy and quickly crossed the street. Sir Paxton hadn't killed him, only laughed and cheerfully reminded his beloved squire that Joren had is _own_ bank account, and therefore replacements would be no problem. _So much for my hard-earned wages_, scowled the squire, trying to remember where that particular potter's had been. He was in the wrong area; this street was known for its pubs and casinos, a breeding-ground for crooks and thieves but a favorite of young nobles nonetheless.

"Joren! Hey, wait!" A hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. Joren looked up into the suntanned face of Zahir. His friend was dressed in a black tunic and leather pants, ebony hair greased back and gold studs lining his ears. The shorter blonde stared meaningfully at the hand Zahir had placed on his shoulder.

"Ten coppers a touch," he said coldly when the Bazhir didn't get the hint. Zahir ignored him.

"Joren, you owe me a favor from last week," he said quickly, "remember? I finished off your homework when you had to work and you said you'd be my eternal slave?"

"Yeah. What about it." Joren had a sneaking suspicion he wouldn't like this. Zahir began dragging him to a casino on the corner of the street, a seedy joint known as the Dragon's Egg.

"Well, I need to borrow your services. I need you as collateral." The tribesman pushed open the doors and led Joren to a table to the left where five men of questionable character were sitting. One, with a dark tunic, numerous scars and greasy brown hair turned when he saw the boys enter and growled something at Zahir. The room was dark but for candles, and the music and voices were so loud Joren couldn't hear a word of what was being said. Zahir gestured towards Joren to the gambler, who looked the blonde over appraisingly then nodded. "He'll do," he mouthed, still inaudible amidst the cacophony. The others at the table nodded. Zahir steered Joren toward an empty chair beside the man with scars and said something.

"WHAT?" shouted Joren. "I CAN'T HEAR YOU?"

"I SAID, YOU STAY HERE! I'LL BE BACK IN JUST A COUPLE OF MINUTES!"

"EH?! WHERE ARE YOU GOING?"  
"TO GRAB SOME MONEY. I RAN SHORT SO THEY'LL KEEP YOU UNTIL I COME BACK."

"*WHAT?!*" Zahir had to be joking. The man with scars leaned over.

"Any later than thirty minutes and we start bartering with HIM, got that Ibn?" 'Ibn' was the slang term for Bazhir. Zahir nodded.

"Hold on, what was that about barter?" Joren didn't like this idea at all.

"Well, if I don't come with the money in time, you become my payment instead," explained Zahir. "So they keep you unless someone else shows up to gamble for you. But don't worry, it won't take me more than ten minutes."  
"It better not," Joren grumbled. Some of the other occupants in the room were eying him the way a vulture eyes roadside carrion, which was not a pleasant feeling. Zahir disappeared and Joren shifted uncomfortably in his chair, watching the dice game unfolding upon the table with an extreme sense of foreboding.

"Hey Garvey, what's wrong?" Zahir had barely stepped out of the casino when he spotted the ginger-haired boy across the street. He ran to catch him, only to find his friend's eyes red and pink face blotched. Garvey hung his head and muttered something about Joren and the Summer Festival. Immediately Zahir understood.

"I'm sure he didn't mean to hurt you," the Bazhir consoled sensibly. "Joren's so oblivious he probably doesn't even know you're upset with him. Besides, he ought to have a good reason." Garvey shook his head, hands tugging at the edge of his gold tunic.

"He just said, 'I don't feel like it,'" he whispered, bangs hiding his eyes. Zahir put a comforting arm around him.

"We all know Joren's a complete ass most of the time. He probably has something else he has to do but doesn't want to talk about.

He wouldn't be so awful to one of his friends if he knew what he was doing." Garvey said nothing, so Zahir leaned over and hugged him. "Tell you what, let's teach him a lesson..."

***

Ten minutes came and passed. Then fifteen, then twenty. _Where is he?_ wondered Joren nervously, pretending not to see the leers thrown his way by the gamblers. _He said it wouldn't take more than ten..._ The brief thought crossed his mind that Zahir had decided to sacrifice Joren and skip the debt, but he dismissed it immediately. Zahir wasn't poor, he could afford anything easily enough...

"Looks like yer half-hour's up," murmured a soft voice beside Joren, close enough that the breath tickled his earlobe. He turned in surprise to see Scar-man. "Guess that makes you ours, kid," he added with a smile that sent shiver's up the boy's spine. The man leaned closer. "I have to admit, I prefer ya to mere cash..."

"No way!" Joren shot up from his seat. "He'll be here any minute!"

"Yeah right." The man to Joren's left had red hair and an eye-patch, as well as a knife with a curved blade he kept nicking a toothpick with. "Sorry, kid, you know the rules. You're ours now." Joren's eyes narrowed.

"Try and stop me," he growled, heading for the door. Wrong choice of words. In a flash, fifty-seven shining weapons were pointed at him from all directions of the room.

"Sorry, cutie, but them's the rules," laughed Scar-man, reaching out and pinching Joren's cheek. "Ask any policeman and they'll be sure to set ya in yer place." A scowl alighted upon Joren's delicate features; he returned to his seat with all the dignity he could muster under the smirks of the gamblers.

_Zahir__, you're gonna die..._

+++++

"I'll set two hundred nobles against Blondie there," announced a man with long black hair and desert-tanned skin.

"Yer outta yer mind!" Scar-man growled. "He's worth at least three hundred!" Joren wondered if he should be flattered, but the prospect of being sold into slavery or any form thereof was too concerning. Through the swinging doors of the casino, he caught a glimpse of ginger hair and a gold tunic.

"Wait!" he shouted, bolting up and running to the door. He had almost made it when a hand roughly grabbed his arm and yanked backwards, sending the boy off his balance.

"What do ya think you're doin'?" snarled Scar-man. Joren ignored him and called out for his friend, disappearing into the throngs of people crowding the street.

"Garvey! Hey Garvey, come back!" The head turned; the face did belong to Garvey. The hazel-eyed squire pushed his way back to the casino doors and shoved them open.

"Joren? What are you doing?" He gave the scarred man a look up and down. "Interesting choice of company, I must say."

"Listen, Garvey, you've got to rescue me! Bet your ring against me, you'll win and I can go free! It'll only take a couple of minutes." Garvey looked puzzled, so Joren hastened to explain. "Zahir owed these guys a debt and paid it with me instead; he was supposed to come back to pay but he didn't, so they're using me as a betting item. If you don't win me, I'll wind up belonging to one of these guys!" Garvey glanced at the gutter spawn inhabitants, the greasy hair, the eye patches, the bodies bristling with weapons, then turned to Joren's worried yet hopeful blue glass eyes. He smiled apologetically.

"No."

"EH?! Why the hell not?!" 

Garvey grinned evilly (something he'd gotten from Joren, of course). "I don't feel like it."

+++++

"Neal!" Joren spotted the unmistakably figure paused in front of the Dragon's Egg. "Hey, get in here!" Neal turned to look at him, and pushed the doors open.

"Joren? What are you doing in here?" 

Joren explained as briefly as he could. "So, will you help me?"  
Neal paused, considering. "Well, that all depends. Did you tell Kel what _really_ happened yesterday?" Joren froze.

"Well, you see..." he trailed off. He had started to, anyway, and that was important. "It went like this--"

"I don't want to hear it," Neal waved him off. "If you didn't help me with something that's your fault anyway, I'm certainly not going to help you! Good luck." He strode away, leaving Joren steaming and slightly panicked.

+++++

By now Joren belonged to the redhead with the eye patch, though he had gone between Scar-man, a brunette with only one leg, and a grizzled pirate with no teeth and one good eye. Three hours had past since Zahir's promise of coming back in ten minutes.

"Joren? What are you doing here?" The fair-haired teen turned to see Sir Paxton, holding a crate and clucking his tongue at the atmosphere disapprovingly.

"Sir Paxton! Thank the gods you're here! I need you to save me!" Had he not been handcuffed to the chair as a result of his attempt at escape an hour before, he would have leapt to hug his knight-master.

"Come again?" Joren explained the situation; when he had finished Sir Paxton sighed and shook his head. "How do you get into these things, boy?"

"So, will you help me?" his valet pleaded, looking up at him with soulful pale eyes.

"I don't have anything to bet with--"

"Yes you do! You've got that vase with you right here!" Paxton looked at Joren, at his vase, then at Joren again. Then at his vase. His beautiful, brand new EXPENSIVE vase, then at Joren, also beautiful, but who had gone through and systematically destroyed his last forty or so beautiful brand new expensive vases. Then he looked at the vase again.

"Is this a trick question?" he laughed.

+++++

Three o'clock -- AM, that is, and nearly closing time. Joren yawned, having been passed between about forty or sixty players. "One final game," announced Scar-man, Joren's current 'owner.' "If nobody gets 'im this time, he's mine."

"I'll play," said a new voice, one with an odd accent. Joren looked up to see the green-eyed man from the restaurant and let out a groan. The man ignored him, focusing on the dice in Scar-man's hands. Scar-man rattled them, tossed them in the small cup, shook it vigorously then placed it upside-down on the table.

"What'll it be?"

Laurent glanced at Joren and grinned briefly. "Evens," he replied. Joren smirked; he knew the dice had been enchanted to make them come up odds at every turn.

"Very well," leered Scar-man, and lifted the cup. He jerked in surprise. "What is this?!" Joren leaned over and peered at the dice; snake eyes. One spot on each dice. The green-eyed man smiled.

"Looks like the boy's mine, then," he remarked, with a grin. Scar-man stood stunned, probably trying to determine what was wrong with his dice. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the key, handing it wordlessly to the stranger. Laurent waved it away.

"No thanks, I think chains rather suit him." To Joren he smiled. "Looks like we'll be seeing a lot of each-other after all, Philippe."

***

"Welcome to your new home, Philippe! Don't worry about where to sleep, you'll be sharing my bed." Laurent laughed softly at Joren's scandalized expression. Joren scowled.

"I told you, it's JOREN. Not Philippe, JOREN. It _isn't_ that difficult to pronounce, even for some stupid foreigner." He wasn't working; manners weren't required. Laurent laughed.

"I prefer Philippe. Don't worry, you will too after a while." The brunette chuckled and fell upon his bed, pulling Joren down with him. The boy sat up indignantly, scooting away and glancing around the chamber. Laurent's flat was rather nice; it was on the third floor of a building in the wealthy side of town, overlooking Rue de la Cours, was spacious, with wide windows, and a large canopy bed with light blue and silver covers and curtains. Joren folded his arms.

"First of all," he began, "Philippe is a dumb name. I'm not Kangenesian or whatever you call it, so don't give me an awful unpronounceable Kangenesian name! Second of all, I'm not staying because I live somewhere else, and third of all I'm most certainly NOT sharing your bed! If you want me to sleep in your bed then you will sleep on the FLOOR. And besides, I--" he cut himself off with a gasp, feeling something warm and wet tracing the outer rim of his ear. A tongue. "STOP THAT!" He tried to turn away, but Laurent grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him closer till Joren was wrapped in his embrace.

"Come on," the man whispered, his husky voice purring in Joren's ear. "You're so cute...you'll like this..." Joren ignored him, struggling to escape the grasp but to no avail. Laurent kept murmuring, soothing whispers floating into the pale boy's ears. "I'm a prince, you know...stay with me the rest of my trip and I can guarantee you'll live the life of a god." Joren stilled at the word 'prince'--and mentally smacked himself. Of course! From Kangen, with the trademark black hair and emerald eyes of the royal family.

"The prince?" he muttered dazedly, and his blue eyes alighted on documents scattered across the desk facing the window. They looked like...letters? If Joren could get rid of Laurent long enough, he'd be able to read them and probably find something out. His thoughts were cut off by a hand sneaking under his shirt and slowly tracing the sensitive skin of his chest.

"Take your clothes off," commanded the prince in a whisper.

_Well, don't let them say I didn't do my job properly..._ thought Joren, slipping out of his tunic.

to be continued...

/*  See?  There is some slash…not too much for anyone, I hope.  Thank you very much for reading and please review with comments or questions…because they are very much appreciated!  */


	8. Arieta

// These characters belong to Tamora Pierce. The plot and OCs belong to me : )

// Warning: This chapter contains slash.

Fairy Tale

Arieta

Joren awoke to find himself sprawled across the massive bed, covered in morning sunlight, his head cradled against Laurent's chest and the brunette's arms around his own slender frame. Slender frame without clothes. _Hmm..._was his exact thought, mind too sleepy yet to form any association between his present state and the previous night's events. His eyes moved up to Laurent's face, the suntanned features evened out and peaceful in repose. 

_*The guy from the restaurant? What...--*_ His eyes widened. *_Oh yeah!* But_ before he could scream, leap out of bed or strangle the sleeping prince, Laurent's eyes opened. The prince smiled sleepily down at the blonde.

"Bonjour, Philippe. Did you sleep well, my lamb?" he asked, stifling a yawn. *_Lamb? Don't make me gag...* Joren's_ mind was still to hazy to incite him to anything more than a lazy roll of his eyes. Laurent moved under him and with a startled yelp Joren found himself on his back, with the green-eyed man's tongue lavishing attentions at the curve of his jaw.

"Isn't it a bit early for that?" he asked groggily, attempting to ward the brunette's face away with a lazy swipe of his hand. Laurent laughed and pulled back.

"It is never to early for anything of the sort," he replied, sounding now fully awake. He rolled off the bed and strode to the closet, selecting a shirt and tunic and pulling them over his large frame. "You may stay 'ere as long as you like," he told Joren, pulling on a pair of leggings. "There is an extra key on the desk that is for you. I 'ave business to attend to, but I wish to see you later this afternoon, there is something I wish to discuss with you." Joren, experienced in such expressions himself, could tell by the sparkle of the raven-haired man's emerald eyes that he probably wouldn't care for the topic of discussion, but after a restless night he cared more about gaining sleep than answers.

"'kay," he murmured, snuggling under the soft sheets and resting his head upon the feather pillow. Within seconds he had returned to sleep. Laurent chuckled softly to himself, gave the sleeping blonde an affectionate pat on his silky head, and quietly let himself out.

***

It was well past noon when Joren reawoke. "Hmm, still gone?" he murmured softly, sitting up and glancing about the empty apartment. Stretching his slender form, he slipped out of bed. *_Where--ahh...* _ His nose wrinkled in disgust, the blonde held up yesterday's clothes from the pile they'd been tossed into much earlier that morning. "Wearing dirty clothes is _so_ gross," he moaned to himself, holding the clothes out in front of him. "Eww, and they're wrinkled too. I can't wear these..." His eyes fell upon the closet, still open, revealing the prince's wardrobe. After a moment's deliberation, Joren approached the closet. "Well," he reasoned, "if he's gonna sleep with me, the very least he can do is lend me some clothes." He settled on a pale blue silk lace-up shirt, which completely dwarfed him, and even with the wide sleeves rolled most of the way up they still shadowed his wrists. He pulled on his black leggings from the day before--those were okay to wear twice in a row, and it was unlikely Laurent would have any pants that would fit Joren's obviously smaller frame. Grabbing a comb from the desk, Joren pulled it through his tresses until they resembled something more like hair and less like tangleweed vines. His strip of leather used to tie it back had disappeared somewhere last night, and rather than search for it he allowed his hair to remain as it was, the silver locks framing his high cheek-bones and pointed chin, half hiding his blue glass eyes, and curling down his back. Naturally curly hair--the curse of Stone Mountain. Too bad he was out of the charmed shampoo used to keep it straight. Joren sighed. "Now to business." The boy leaned over the desk facing the window, shuffling through the scraps of parchment.

"To the acting prince, to the secretary of state, to Mommy..." but none held anything of interest, only descriptions of the visit so far, the king's wish for him to stand down, the wonderful food, a rather detailed description of a certain serving boy at a certain restaurant (elaborate enough to make Joren blush), but nothing regarding the reason behind his war, nor any future actions. "Come on," Joren muttered. "There's got to be _some_thing!" A scrap of paper on the ground caught his eye. It appeared to have slipped from the desk and been hidden under the chair. The squire bent down to retrieve it. Unlike the others it was printed on pink paper, the sort Joren's mother used for invitations, and when Joren lifted it to his nose he could smell the faint scent of expensive cologne.

"A love letter?" he asked. Like the others, it was written in Kangenese, which fortunately Joren had taken as his foreign language during studies as a page. It was, however, unfinished. "Would he really write any useful information in a love letter?" wondered the boy, but being Joren he felt compelled to read it.

"Dearest Juli," he began, and abruptly stopped. Juli? Didn't Laurent prefer guys? *_Maybe it's a cover-up,* thought_ Joren, though he had no idea why the prince would do such a thing. Deciding to ponder this turn of events later, he continued. "Without your presence, I feel as though my heart will break with loneliness. But do not worry, for soon everything will be fine. Let us speak of our plans when we meet. I have decided we should come together when May meets June at...um." Connexion de l'Orange? "Connexion de... well, l'Orange means the Orange, de is of... the something of the Orange. What's Connexion?" the boy asked out loud, wishing he'd brought his dictionary with him.

"It means 'port,'" replied a voice from behind him. "Connexion de l'Orange is a port on an island just west of the Copper Isles, where I am scheduled to go after my stay at Tortall." Joren whirled around to see an unsmiling Laurent.

"Oh, Laurent! Ah, you're back...early." Joren glanced through the window at the clock tower, visible in the distance. A quarter past four. "Well, maybe not. So, did you have a good time? I just got up...just a minute ago...uhh..." Laurent's face didn't betray any emotion. Joren winced and decided to go for the direct approach.

"So, who's Juli?"

"Nice clothes," replied Laurent, without his characteristic grin. Joren paled.

"Um. Mine were dirty?" Laurent glared. 

"I don't recall giving you permission to read my letters, Philippe. My _personal _letters." Joren shrank back. The usually amiable prince looked angry, a mood that made him really, really scary. The squire couldn't fight his way out of this one; it would defeat the purpose of his mission. So he took the only other obvious alternative.

"Sorry!" he cried, launching forward and embracing the angry prince, burying his head a startled Laurent's chest. "I was only curious, I swear I'll never, ever, ever do it again!" He reached up to wrap his arms around the man's neck, looking up at him with huge, liquid baby-blue eyes. "Please forgive me?" he whispered, expression hopeful. Inwardly amused, he watched as Laurent struggled in the internal battle, having used the tactics that worked on ol' Paxy every time (well, almost every time).

"I forgive you," Laurent conceded finally. "But don't let it happen again." Joren smirked at the firm tone.

"I won't!" he exclaimed brightly, pulling Laurent's head down to bestow a peck on his cheek. "So, you wanted to discuss something?" Laurent blinked at the mood change.

"Yes, well...come with me to the tailors. If you are to be seen with me, you must wear clothes so that I may show you off." He held Joren out at arms length, the way Joren had done with his clothes previously. Hungry green eyes swept over the boy's figure. "Not that you don't look wonderful right now, of course." The feral gleam in the prince's eyes made Joren's cheeks redden. The prince gave Joren another hungry look, then sighed.

"Alas, Philippe, if I take the time to ravish you now, we will be late," he said regretfully. He took Joren by the arm. "Anyhow, we must have you fitted. I'm sure you will look stunning in it."

"Huh? What's 'it'?" asked Joren as Laurent propelled him to the door. The prince smiled mysteriously.

"You will see."

"So, where were you?" They tromped down the stairs, Laurent releasing Joren's arm and taking his hand. As they stepped into the afternoon, Joren reddened at the looks they received from other pedestrians, though he wasn't sure if they were aimed at the holding of hands or his own rather casual choice in dresswear. He hadn't even put on shoes, he realized as his bare feet came into contact with cobblestones. Laurent noticed it as well.

"Ah, you 'ave no shoes, Philippe! Never fear, I shall 'elp you." That said, he grabbed hold of Joren's waist and lifted him, finally settling the boy in his arms, holding him like a kitten. Needless to say, this got them even more looks. Laurent ignored them. "Well," he began, in answer to the query, "I first went to a meeting with your king, Jonathan. 'E is in a bit of a temper about something."

"He's always like that," replied Joren dismissively. "He needs to get laid." This drew a laugh from Laurent.

"Then, I met a boy for lunch. 'E is not a bad sort, though I think your king 'as set 'im up with me to steal information or something."

"Like what sort of information?" asked Joren innocently. Laurent smiled gently down at him.

"Nothing that would interest you, my dear Philippe," he replied sweetly. _Damn,_ thought Joren, but kept the smile pasted on his face. "Anyway, this boy seems to talk alot; the reason I think we were set up is because 'e always mentions a girl. I do not think 'e really likes me, but was asked to accompany me to these things. 'E is at every event I have gone to so far in my stay."

"What's his name?"

"Nealan of Queenscove. Do you know him?" Joren made a face. "I take that as a yes?" Laurent chuckled. They had almost reached the tailor's.

"He's really dumb," replied Joren with a scowl. "And that girl he was talking about, was it Keladry?" Laurent nodded. "Well, she's not _really_ a girl," continued Joren in a low voice. "She only dresses as one." Laurent raised an eyebrow.

"Is that so?" They had reached the tailor's; balancing Joren in one hand, Laurent pulled the wooden door open and stepped inside. The front room was full of girls, all of whom giggled when the two males entered. Ignoring the whispers, Joren looked over at the seamstress who stood behind a counter. For some reason, she seemed awfully familiar.

"Lalasa!" exclaimed Laurent. "I 'ave brought the boy we discussed. 'Ave you thought of any designs?" It suddenly clicked. Kel's servant. Oh no.

Joren stifled a groan and attempted to hide his face in Laurent's arm. "Yes, sir," the girl replied meekly, with a startled glance in Joren's direction. The squire could have sworn he saw an evil smile light the passive girl's features. No, it couldn't be. The girl was far to weak for--"If you'll step this way?" Lalasa led the two to the back room, where Laurent gently set Joren down. Lalasa surveyed Joren critically. There was that smile again, but only for a brief second.

"Excuse me, you'll have to take off your clothes," she said softly. "I can't take measurements while you're wearing them." Joren's breath caught.

"I know my measurements," he replied crossly. "It's not as though I've never been to a tailor's--"

"These are different measurements," she replied smoothly. "For a different type of clothing." Where did she get the audacity to talk like that to a noble? But Laurent was nodding in agreement. Joren began to reluctantly remove the massive shirt, when he froze. He couldn't undress! That afternoon, he hadn't put on any--

"Underwear, too," said Laurent, a tint of amusement in his voice. If Philippe turned any redder he'd have to be served with whipped cream.

"Wha~at?!" the boy exclaimed incredulously. Lalasa covered her uncharacteristic smirk.

"For this outfit, you will require a different type of undergarment," she explained meekly. She wasn't embarrassed, this kind of thing was part of her job. Joren glared at Laurent, who smiled unflinchingly back. _How, oh how, do I get into these things?_ the squire asked silently.

A short time later saw Joren shivering and completely nude. Lalasa was busy with a strip of measuring tape, taking down numbers for the size of his waist, the girth around his shoulders, and of his chest around the height of just below his shoulders. She would pin scraps of fabric around him, every so often "accidentally" jabbing him with a pin. He winced but ignored it. Let the common vulgar thing have her fun. He was confused about the measurements, though--they weren't typical for the sort of clothing he was familiar with. And the style of the cloth she was fitting him with seemed awfully strange as well. Joren was getting suspicious. At last Lalasa stood, taking a large sketch from the shelves of the wall and scribbling down the measurement numbers beside it.

"Hey," said Joren into the room's silence. He had a bad feeling about this, and Lalasa's smirk as she gazed over the design sketch wasn't helping.

"Just a moment, Philippe," said Laurent. He was studying a book full of fabric samples, rubbing his finger over them and squinting. "Which do you prefer, sugar pink or buttercup?"

"What the hell kind of question is that?!" squeaked Joren. This was bad, oh, he just knew he wasn't going to like this. "What kind of crazy clothing is this anyway? It needs completely new measurements and undergarments, and you want it in _those_ colors?"

Laurent looked up at him, innocence written all over his handsome face. Joren knew that look only too well. The one he used on Paxton all the time, that he had used on Laurent just an hour or so ago. "Why," the prince said sweetly, "it's for the outfit you're going to wear at the ball, of course." Joren glared.

"What _kind_ of outfit," he asked in his most steely voice.

"One that I can use to show you off, of course!" Laurent exclaimed. Joren didn't smile. The raven-haired man sighed. "Would you like to see the design?"

"Yes." Well, not really, but it was better than not knowing the reason behind Laurent's façade and Lalasa's periodic bursts of uncharacteristic laughter.

"Very well. Lalasa, my dear, show my lovely Philippe what he'll be wearing when he accompanies me to the ball." With an obedient nod, Lalasa scratched down the last of the measurements and turned the sketch around to show Joren.

"It's one of my best works yet," she exclaimed proudly.

Joren took one look.

"You've got to be joking. No way. No no no no no no NO way in hell will I EVER--"

"I think it's cute," Laurent offered. "You'll look great." Joren looked from him, to Lalasa, to the sketch, and to Laurent again. *_If they recognize me, I will never live this down,*_ he thought, before dropping in a dead faint.

to be continued...

/*  Another chapter done *phew* -_-;;  thanks for your past reviews and please tell me how you felt about this one (or any of them)… I'd give you a date for the next chapter but I know it'll never happen…*/


	9. Dithyramb

// These characters belong to Tamora Pierce. The plot and OCs belong to me. : )

// This chapter contains slash.

Fairy Tale

Dithyramb

Joren found himself upon the dance floor, clad in a frilly sugar-pink gown with bare shoulders and his white-blonde hair curled up into a bun, a few stray wildly curling locks brushing his shoulders and back. Bare back, as the backside of the dress didn't reach a few inches past his waist. The front was tightly laced around his well-endowed chest--thanks to the generous use of what Lalasa had termed "falsies"-- and the feathery pink material of the skirt portion was split high at the sides, revealing his slender, milky white thighs and legs. Adorning his moon-white crown was a sparkling diamond tiara. He was looking for Laurent, whom he knew was with Nealan, but could only catch a glimpse of ebony hair and emerald eyes before the crowd closed around him, making it impossible for him to move. "Excuse me," he called, his voice coming out much higher pitched than it should have. "Pardon me, I have to get throu--" he was pushed aside by the crowd and bumped against another girl, who let out a stifled shriek.

"Oh, I'm terrible--Garvey?!" Garvey, cinnamon hair cascading down his back in waves and clad in an elegant evergreen dress with a low neckline, smiled.

"I was wondering where you were, Philippe! Having a good time?" Joren was absolutely at a loss.

"Why are you in a dress?" Garvey smiled and wrapped an arm around waist of the guy he was with, pulling the taller man down into a kiss. With a shock, Joren realized the taller man was actually a girl, dressed in a man's elegant red leggings and velvet tunic, a sword hanging at her side. She towered over them both, like a grown man over two teenage girls. With a further shock, Joren realized it was Kel. He looked around wildly. No one else seemed to find it odd that Garvey was dressed as a girl and Kel was dressed as a guy.

Then he realized, every woman in the room was a man dressed in a flowing ball gown and glass slippers, and their masculine partners were in fact women clad in men's garments. "What's going on?!" he gasped. Garvey smirked.

"Haven't you heard?" he asked airily. "It's Ladies Knight."

"In honor of my becoming a squire and eventually a knight, the king and queen have decided that all women shall become knights and squires, and all knights and squires shall become women," added Kel, leaning down and tracing Garvey's neck with a finger. Garvey giggled and whispered something into her ear, wrapping his slender arms around her broad shoulders. In return, she placed her hands around his tiny waist and the two began to slow-dance. Joren realized they seemed to be gaining more and more of a distance from him.

"Garvey! What are you doing?!" he called, not wanting to be left alone.

"Isn't it obvious?" replied Garvey with a titter. "I'm dancing the knight away!" Joren was about to run after them when a hand grasped his shoulder and spun him around. He found himself facing a very irate Nealan of Queenscove, stunning in a wispy silk blue gown and a pair of dangling sapphire eardrops.

"Philippe, you little slut!" he hissed. "Kel's _my_ man! It's your fault she's not dancing with me and doing _that!_" Joren glanced over his shoulder to see what "that" was, only to find Kel's tongue engaged in a rapt exploration of Garvey's tonsils. Feeling slightly green (though it clashed with his ensemble), he turned back to face Nealan.

"So what am I supposed to do about it? Go eat some chocolate and drown your sorrows in milkshakes." He wasn't sure how that little rejoinder had popped onto his tongue, but found his contemplation cut short when Neal grabbed his waist and pulled him into a dance.

"If I can't have Kel, I'll take _your_ man instead," he whispered cruelly, leaning down to bite Joren viciously on his exposed ivory shoulder.

"But I don't _have _a--"

"Mind if I cut in?" A finger tapped Neal on the shoulder. He looked up.

"Why you--" he gasped, but was left behind as a strong pair of hands replaced themselves over Joren's delicate waist, and he found himself pressed into a warm chest." He looked up into a pair of sparkling emerald eyes.

"Laurent? What are you doing here?" Unlike the other men, Laurent was actually dressed in a man's attire, with a dark burgundy tunic, black leggings, and a single silver and diamond eardrop through his left ear. The man ignored Joren's question and leaned down, breath tickling Joren's ear.

"Ahh, Philippe," he sighed. "You look absolutely ravishing. I shall 'ave to do some ravishing my self, non?" The two swayed from side to side, gently in time to the violins. "You are so beautiful," Laurent continued to whisper. "I cannot 'elp myself..." and he let his warm tongue slide into Joren's ear, then over his cheek, and with increasing urgency the other cheek. Soon he was frantically licking Joren's entire face, eyes, nose, even into his mouth and against his teeth.

"Laurent, stop," cried Joren, blushing red as the Kangenesian's attentions began to draw the eyes of the crowd. "Not here! Save it for tonight in bed!"

The tongue subsided and Laurent barked happily.

Barked?

Joren awoke for the third time that day, opening his eyes to find himself greeted by the liquid brown orbs of an enthusiastic Ariose. "Ariose? What are you..." he trailed off, finding himself in his own bed, in his own room, and greeted by the identical stares and smirks of three men at the foot of his bed. King Jonathan, Prince Laurent, and Lord Paxton. Each of them appeared to find something uproariously hilarious. Joren shrank back.

"Is something amusing?" he asked, tone as haughty as he could manage on such short notice. King Jon allowed himself an unkingly snort.

"No, Joren," replied Lord Paxton, trying to hide his smile. "It's just that when you're asleep, you're somewhat vocal." Puzzled, Joren cast his brain back to remember what he had said in his dream.

_Laurent, stop! Not here! Save it for tonight in bed..._

Joren's silent yet fervent plea for instant death went unnoticed by the gods, who were apparently busy elsewhere.

*_GottasavefaceGottasavefaceGottasavefaceGottasavefaceGottasavefaceGottasaveface--*_ "Well," replied Joren, rolling his eyes and casting a haughty look towards the ceiling, "I'm afraid I don't recall any of my dream."

Laurent's divine lips curled into a suggestive smile. "Don't worry, my darling Philippe," he purred. "Tonight I will be sure to 'elp you remember..."

Joren looked away nervously. "_Anyway_," he began in an obvious attempt at a subject change, "how'd I wind up here and what are _you_" -- Joren did his best to fill the word with enough disgust to convey that 'you' was short for 'you vile and diseased carcass of flea-ridden vermin' -- "doing here, your Majesty?" The use of the honorific title and completely superficial smile Joren kept in reserve for such occasions decreed that his statement was within protocol. Barely.

"After you so beautifully fainted, I carried you 'ere to the palace to see a physician. 'owever I met these two on the way and they brought me 'ere to set you until you awoke," explained Laurent. He pulled a pocket out by a golden chain and glanced briefly at it. "I must be going, I 'ave business to attend to. I will see you this evening, around eight o'clock, at my apartment?" Joren reluctantly nodded, and the charming prince took his leave.

"Well, now that Sleeping Beauty is awake, shall we finish our conversation, Sir Paxton?" suggested the king with a smirk. "Perhaps we should adjourn to my private chambers to discuss the matter." Sir Paxton nodded.

"Joren, dinner's on the table. You received a note from Squire Nealan of Queenscove, too." With that, the two men left Joren's room and shut the door behind them. Allowing them time to remove themselves from earshot, the blonde squire snorted.

"'Conversing.' Is _that_ what they call it these days." Raising his voice, he called, "Hey! Why not fetch Ol' Raoul and 'converse' with _HIM,_ too?!"

"Joren," said Sir Paxton's voice just outside his door. "We _did_ hear everything you just said, you know."

Fuck. Weren't they gone yet? "Umm. Ahahaha. I was talking to myself," replied Joren, automatically reverting to his superficial-smile face despite the fact they couldn't see him. He could hear the king snort and Paxy sigh.

"Sure. See you tomorrow and _stay out of trouble._"

"Don't I always?" Joren shot back.

"If by 'always,' you mean never, then yes, always," replied Sir Paxton. Joren heard the king murmur, "Maybe we _should_ invite Raoul..." and the click

of the outer doors, then hopped out of bed and into the antechamber then kitchen.

"Neal, huh? What's _he_ want?" he wondered, tearing open the envelope that lay on the table.

to be continued...

// These characters belong to Tamora Pierce. The plot and OCs belong to me. : )

// This chapter contains slash.

Fairy Tale

Dithyramb

Joren found himself upon the dance floor, clad in a frilly sugar-pink gown with bare shoulders and his white-blonde hair curled up into a bun, a few stray wildly curling locks brushing his shoulders and back. Bare back, as the backside of the dress didn't reach a few inches past his waist. The front was tightly laced around his well-endowed chest--thanks to the generous use of what Lalasa had termed "falsies"-- and the feathery pink material of the skirt portion was split high at the sides, revealing his slender, milky white thighs and legs. Adorning his moon-white crown was a sparkling diamond tiara. He was looking for Laurent, whom he knew was with Nealan, but could only catch a glimpse of ebony hair and emerald eyes before the crowd closed around him, making it impossible for him to move. "Excuse me," he called, his voice coming out much higher pitched than it should have. "Pardon me, I have to get throu--" he was pushed aside by the crowd and bumped against another girl, who let out a stifled shriek.

"Oh, I'm terrible--Garvey?!" Garvey, cinnamon hair cascading down his back in waves and clad in an elegant evergreen dress with a low neckline, smiled.

"I was wondering where you were, Philippe! Having a good time?" Joren was absolutely at a loss.

"Why are you in a dress?" Garvey smiled and wrapped an arm around waist of the guy he was with, pulling the taller man down into a kiss. With a shock, Joren realized the taller man was actually a girl, dressed in a man's elegant red leggings and velvet tunic, a sword hanging at her side. She towered over them both, like a grown man over two teenage girls. With a further shock, Joren realized it was Kel. He looked around wildly. No one else seemed to find it odd that Garvey was dressed as a girl and Kel was dressed as a guy.

Then he realized, every woman in the room was a man dressed in a flowing ball gown and glass slippers, and their masculine partners were in fact women clad in men's garments. "What's going on?!" he gasped. Garvey smirked.

"Haven't you heard?" he asked airily. "It's Ladies Knight."

"In honor of my becoming a squire and eventually a knight, the king and queen have decided that all women shall become knights and squires, and all knights and squires shall become women," added Kel, leaning down and tracing Garvey's neck with a finger. Garvey giggled and whispered something into her ear, wrapping his slender arms around her broad shoulders. In return, she placed her hands around his tiny waist and the two began to slow-dance. Joren realized they seemed to be gaining more and more of a distance from him.

"Garvey! What are you doing?!" he called, not wanting to be left alone.

"Isn't it obvious?" replied Garvey with a titter. "I'm dancing the knight away!" Joren was about to run after them when a hand grasped his shoulder and spun him around. He found himself facing a very irate Nealan of Queenscove, stunning in a wispy silk blue gown and a pair of dangling sapphire eardrops.

"Philippe, you little slut!" he hissed. "Kel's _my_ man! It's your fault she's not dancing with me and doing _that!_" Joren glanced over his shoulder to see what "that" was, only to find Kel's tongue engaged in a rapt exploration of Garvey's tonsils. Feeling slightly green (though it clashed with his ensemble), he turned back to face Nealan.

"So what am I supposed to do about it? Go eat some chocolate and drown your sorrows in milkshakes." He wasn't sure how that little rejoinder had popped onto his tongue, but found his contemplation cut short when Neal grabbed his waist and pulled him into a dance.

"If I can't have Kel, I'll take _your_ man instead," he whispered cruelly, leaning down to bite Joren viciously on his exposed ivory shoulder.

"But I don't _have _a--"

"Mind if I cut in?" A finger tapped Neal on the shoulder. He looked up.

"Why you--" he gasped, but was left behind as a strong pair of hands replaced themselves over Joren's delicate waist, and he found himself pressed into a warm chest." He looked up into a pair of sparkling emerald eyes.

"Laurent? What are you doing here?" Unlike the other men, Laurent was actually dressed in a man's attire, with a dark burgundy tunic, black leggings, and a single silver and diamond eardrop through his left ear. The man ignored Joren's question and leaned down, breath tickling Joren's ear.

"Ahh, Philippe," he sighed. "You look absolutely ravishing. I shall 'ave to do some ravishing my self, non?" The two swayed from side to side, gently in time to the violins. "You are so beautiful," Laurent continued to whisper. "I cannot 'elp myself..." and he let his warm tongue slide into Joren's ear, then over his cheek, and with increasing urgency the other cheek. Soon he was frantically licking Joren's entire face, eyes, nose, even into his mouth and against his teeth.

"Laurent, stop," cried Joren, blushing red as the Kangenesian's attentions began to draw the eyes of the crowd. "Not here! Save it for tonight in bed!"

The tongue subsided and Laurent barked happily.

Barked?

Joren awoke for the third time that day, opening his eyes to find himself greeted by the liquid brown orbs of an enthusiastic Ariose. "Ariose? What are you..." he trailed off, finding himself in his own bed, in his own room, and greeted by the identical stares and smirks of three men at the foot of his bed. King Jonathan, Prince Laurent, and Lord Paxton. Each of them appeared to find something uproariously hilarious. Joren shrank back.

"Is something amusing?" he asked, tone as haughty as he could manage on such short notice. King Jon allowed himself an unkingly snort.

"No, Joren," replied Lord Paxton, trying to hide his smile. "It's just that when you're asleep, you're somewhat vocal." Puzzled, Joren cast his brain back to remember what he had said in his dream.

_Laurent, stop! Not here! Save it for tonight in bed..._

Joren's silent yet fervent plea for instant death went unnoticed by the gods, who were apparently busy elsewhere.

*_GottasavefaceGottasavefaceGottasavefaceGottasavefaceGottasavefaceGottasaveface--*_ "Well," replied Joren, rolling his eyes and casting a haughty look towards the ceiling, "I'm afraid I don't recall any of my dream."

Laurent's divine lips curled into a suggestive smile. "Don't worry, my darling Philippe," he purred. "Tonight I will be sure to 'elp you remember..."

Joren looked away nervously. "_Anyway_," he began in an obvious attempt at a subject change, "how'd I wind up here and what are _you_" -- Joren did his best to fill the word with enough disgust to convey that 'you' was short for 'you vile and diseased carcass of flea-ridden vermin' -- "doing here, your Majesty?" The use of the honorific title and completely superficial smile Joren kept in reserve for such occasions decreed that his statement was within protocol. Barely.

"After you so beautifully fainted, I carried you 'ere to the palace to see a physician. 'owever I met these two on the way and they brought me 'ere to set you until you awoke," explained Laurent. He pulled a pocket out by a golden chain and glanced briefly at it. "I must be going, I 'ave business to attend to. I will see you this evening, around eight o'clock, at my apartment?" Joren reluctantly nodded, and the charming prince took his leave.

"Well, now that Sleeping Beauty is awake, shall we finish our conversation, Sir Paxton?" suggested the king with a smirk. "Perhaps we should adjourn to my private chambers to discuss the matter." Sir Paxton nodded.

"Joren, dinner's on the table. You received a note from Squire Nealan of Queenscove, too." With that, the two men left Joren's room and shut the door behind them. Allowing them time to remove themselves from earshot, the blonde squire snorted.

"'Conversing.' Is _that_ what they call it these days." Raising his voice, he called, "Hey! Why not fetch Ol' Raoul and 'converse' with _HIM,_ too?!"

"Joren," said Sir Paxton's voice just outside his door. "We _did_ hear everything you just said, you know."

Fuck. Weren't they gone yet? "Umm. Ahahaha. I was talking to myself," replied Joren, automatically reverting to his superficial-smile face despite the fact they couldn't see him. He could hear the king snort and Paxy sigh.

"Sure. See you tomorrow and _stay out of trouble._"

"Don't I always?" Joren shot back.

"If by 'always,' you mean never, then yes, always," replied Sir Paxton. Joren heard the king murmur, "Maybe we _should_ invite Raoul..." and the click

of the outer doors, then hopped out of bed and into the antechamber then kitchen.

"Neal, huh? What's _he_ want?" he wondered, tearing open the envelope that lay on the table.

to be continued...

/* I hope you liked this chapter! Please be sure to review. In answer to moonshine, there's not a lot of gay people, only Laurent. Garvey's just in love @_@ and Jonny needs a break. Paxy is just...Paxy  ^^ New chapter coming soon. */


	10. Roulade

These characters belong to Tamora Pierce. The plot and OCs belong to me : )

// This chapter contains slash and a swear word.

// It has come to my attention that some people aren't aware of this...but...~*SLASH = YAOI*~ or for you C++ers, 

// bool Slash = true; bool Yaoi = true; if (Yaoi || Slash) {cout "This story contains slash/yaoi" endl;}

Fairy Tale

Roulade

_Joren__--_

_ Come to my chamber and meet me. We have to discuss the "mission." This is urgent._

_ --Nealan of Queenscove_

_ P.S. In case you are thinking of not coming, over here there is **free food.**_

"Hmm," said Joren, glancing at the postscript notice. "He's appealing to my better nature again. Damn." Sadly, it was Joren's experience through various campfire nights that Nealan was a good cook. Sir Paxton, on the other hand-- Joren glanced at "dinner," turning green at the gills upon sighting the various arteries and oozing pores of the entree-- well, there wasn't much contest. Turning the note over in preparation of scribbling a note to Paxton should he return early from his conversation (though most likely he wouldn't come back 'til morning, thought Joren with glee), the boy cast around for a quill. They never seemed to have any about the apartments. With a sigh, Joren grabbed the silverware Paxy had oh-so-thoughtfully set out and selected the knife. The sharpened blade dove point first into the tip of Joren's index finger, rewarding him with a crimson droplet.

The slightly smeared and quickly drying note read, in what could be disconcertingly copper-brown scribbles,

_Sir -- left early. Back tomorrow. Hope you aren't too sore from your "conversation."_

He just hoped the ants didn't get to it before Sir Paxton did.

Striding briskly down the hallway -- Sir Alanna's rooms were in the wing opposite that of Sir Paxton's -- Joren allowed his mind to wander. What could Queenscove possibly want? He was apparently the "other boy" in the mission, but did they really have anything to discuss? They could always collaborate on the information twist, he decided, but Laurent didn't seem as though he had anything to hide. The Kangenesian really didn't seem the devious sort, so Joren assumed whatever reason the prince had for preparing to blast the other islands out of the water must be well-justified. Too caught up in his thoughts, Joren walked smack into someone else, causing the other to fall to the ground and the large stack of papers he was holding to scatter everywhere. Joren started to apologize, but caught himself in time as he realized who the other person was.

"Wrong direction, Lord Turomot," he taunted, smirking down at the elderly knight who sat sprawled inelegantly across the floor. "I think the funeral home is _that_ way. Though I do commend you for getting a head start." With his usual need to rationalize his more rash actions, Joren's furtive mind at once came up with a simple diagram.

_Lord Turomot -- Debt -- Need to work -- Job at Guillam's -- Meeting Laurent -- Dress._

That justified it.

"You," Turomot practically spat. "Hasn't your knight-master whipped you into something resembling human _yet_?"

"I'd offer to let _you_ do it, but the exertion would probably kill you. For that matter, the walk up the stairs would probably kill you."

"You arrogant puppy! Someday you'll get exactly what's coming to you and I hope I'm there to enjoy it!" The knight was shaking with rage.

Joren shrugged. "Somehow that's unlikely, considering at your age you'd be lucky to make it another two minutes." He was unprepared for the hand that shot out to grab him by the collar, and to be pressed up against the stone wall. He fought the instinct to struggle and remained relaxed, allowing his features to curl into an elegant snarl.

"You listen to me, little prat," whispered Turomot, tightening his hold on Joren's collar 'til the boy began to choke. "An insolent little brat like you has no place even breathing the same air as nobler, more experienced and wiser folk than yourself. I've forgotten more than you'll ever know, do you hear me?" He seemed to want an answer and Joren couldn't breathe, so instead nodded weakly. "I don't know why you think you can get away with speaking to me like that," the knight continued, "and rest assured, you'll be punished. And the gods see all, so if you hope to lead a happy afterlife you'd best turn your life around while you can." That said, he released his hold on Joren and the boy dropped to the ground, gasping for breath. Gathering his papers, the old knight began to leave when Joren spoke.

"That's what you think," he replied snobbishly. "My daddy and Mithros--they're like this!" He held up two hooked fingers, allowed himself a smirk at Lord Turomot's completely scandalized expression, and turned to vanish down a corridor.

A knock sounded. *_He's late,*_ thought Nealan, and pulled open the door to admit a slightly breathless Joren. "Where's the food?" asked the blonde, walking past Nealan and tossing himself on the bed with a bounce.

Neal scowled. "Where have you been? I sent that note for you three _hours_ ago!" Joren spread out, laying his silky head against the pillow and sighing deeply.

"I think I'm in love with your mattress," the boy murmured sleepily.

"Wake up!" yelled Neal. "I _asked_ you a _question_!"

"Hmm? Oh." Joren sat up and rubbed his head groggily. "Getting shagged by royalty, parading in drag, taunting the elderly." He grinned at Queenscove's shocked expression. "The usual." His corn silk hair was adorably tousled and he stretched languidly, revealing an ivory-white slender stomach. *_Wait,*_ thought Nealan. *_Did I just think of Joren and adorable at the same time? The stress must be affecting my brain...*_

"Anyways," announced Neal hastily, before his mind could spew out any more traitorous thoughts, "about Laurent. Have you managed to get anything out of him? Has he let something slip, or told you anything during your excursions or during--"

"Pillow talk?" offered Joren with a mocking smile. He was rewarded with a blush and stammer from the older boy. "Just remember," he laughed. "The initials of Stone Mountain are S & M." Replacing his head back on the pillow and rolling on to his stomach, he shook his head slowly. "He always says the affairs of state wouldn't interest me. I think he thinks I can't understand it or something..." Gracefully ignoring Nealan's snort, he continued. "There were some letters on his desk, but they didn't say anything really useful." Belatedly a memory popped into his mind. "Oh, except for Juli."

"Who's Juli?" asked Neal, dragging a chair in front of his bed and sitting to face the other squire.

"Some girl who he's in love with, I think." The boy closed his eyes. "He said in the letter his loneliness was tearing him up, and he couldn't live without her. And they arranged to meet at some port."

"A girl? I thought he liked *boys*. Oh well...Which port?" Joren made no reply, yawning deeply into his mattress. Nealan shook him impatiently. "Wake up! This could be really important! When and where are they planning to meet?"

"Umm," Joren yawned. People had been waking him up all day. "The Apple Port? No, it was...Port de l'Pears? Port de l'Kumquats? I don't remember."

"Well, try to think. I know it's something you aren't used to, but give it a shot." Joren scrunched his face in annoyance.

"Port...no, Connexion de l'Orange, that's it! In two weeks, I think it was. And he got really, really mad when he caught me reading them."

Nealan froze. "He caught you?"

"Yeah. But don't worry, if he suspected anything, he wouldn't be planning to take me to the ball."

"He's taking you to the _ball_?" Even with his eyes closed, Joren could see that annoying smirk that accompanied Queenscove's inane questions. "Well, well, that explains the drag," mused the other boy. "The other two things you mentioned I _don't_ want to know about, though." Then he lapsed in to silence.

"So, what could Juli and meeting at the Connexion de l'Orange have to do with his wanting to mutilate those islands?" asked Joren, out of idle curiosity. "And how will you be able to grab any further information out of him?"

"I'm thinking!" snapped Nealan.

"That explains the burning smell..." retorted Joren. He felt as though his body was growing lighter and lighter... *_Drat! Is he asleep?* thought_ Nealan, glaring at the angelic sleeping figure splayed out across his bed. He had no wish to wake a completely sleeping Joren, having learned better at the last summer-outing as pages they'd had together. Cleon had been charged with the duty of waking Joren for breakfast--afterwards was one of the few times he'd ever seen the huge red-head cry. And this was when the two of them were thirteen...Joren was not a morning person. *_Well, where am *I* supposed to sleep?*_

_***_

"You're late," whispered Laurent, working quickly to divest the boy of his clothing. Philippe was still clad in Laurent's clothing -- which the prince found utterly charming, as well as a major turn-on -- though this time the boy had brought along a change of clothes for the next morning.

"I fell asleep again," replied Joren softly, bringing his hands up to unbutton Laurent's shirt. He was learning to actually like the Kangenesian. It wasn't often you met someone who paid you total attention 24/7. Laurent paused.

"Just a moment, I 'ave a gift for you." Reaching over to his nightstand, he grabbed a tiny jewelry box and handed it to Philippe. The boy looked at it and started to scowl.

"I'm not a _girl_ you know," he began, but Philippe stopped his words with a kiss. Thus admonished, the boy opened the box to find a black velvet choker with a charm bearing the Kangen royal crest, a bluebird with wings spread in flight bearing a rose in its beak. He held it up to the faint candlelight that illuminated the room. "What's the matter, were they all out of spiked collars and leashes?" 

Laurent smiled, taking the necklace and fastening it about the boy's slender ivory throat. Unbuttoning the boy's voluminous shirt -- _his_ shirt -- Laurent quickly stripped the boy of all else. Beckoning his 'prize' clad in nothing but an open shirt and a collar closer, Laurent whispered, "I 'ave another surprise for you." The boy's azure eyes met his curiously. Reaching under the pillow, Laurent revealed the handcuffs he'd taken from the gamblers.

"Let's 'ave some fun, shall we?"

to be continued...

/*  Thank you for your reviews and please support this story (and me ^^) by reviewing this chapter!  Jaa mata.  */


	11. Dirge

//These characters belong to Tamora Pierce. The plot belongs to me. :)

//Warning for excessive swearing and Joren-torture (M won.)

Fairy Tale

Dirge

"Good afternoon oh gods good-bye." Joren strode calmly into the living room, took a look at the figures seated there, turned about and started to stride back out.

"Hold it, Joren," commanded Sir Paxton in a steely voice. The squire stopped in his tracks, took a breath and turned around.

"Is there something you need, my lord?" he asked, planting a falsely cheerful smile across his face. Paxton wasn't fooled.

"Don't be rude, Joren. We have a guest," the knight replied, his tone deceptively calm. He gestured to the man sitting in the tall-backed chair across the sitting table. "Be a good lad and pour him some tea."

Joren looked at the guest, smile faltering. "Of course, how inconsiderate of me. I'll be right back." He walked briskly into the kitchen, and once out of earshot began shuddering uncontrollably. "Fuck fuck fuck. I am fucked. What in Shakith's name is _he_ doing here?!" But of course he knew exactly why Duke Turomot had come.

***

"More tea?" he heard himself asking, pouring the steaming liquid into the judge's teacup with a shaking hand. *_Gods, I am a suck-up,* _he thought, but he needed to gain all the favor he could. Lord Paxton, when angry, was the scariest thing Joren knew. Worse than the Lioness, who got red-faced and violent; worse than himself, who got cat-eyed and snarly; Sir Paxton got calm. And soft-spoken. And _mean._

The knight had begun by explaining to Joren that Duke Turomot had had a run-in with an ill-mannered boy he seemed to think was Joren. "What was that he said? Something about his daddy and Mithros being like this?" He held up crossed fingers. Joren reddened and pretended to be engrossed in the mechanics of the teapot.

Duke Turomot nodded. "A very childish display of antics."

Paxton nodded gravely. "But it surely couldn't have been Joren. Not _my_ Joren, whom I have lectured again and again on the importance of respect to authority and elders." His voice grew colder and harder with each word, normally friendly blue eyes gazing unblinkingly into Joren's wide ones.

_*Fucked. Oh gods help. I will everything to Garvey--oh wait, I'm not speaking to him, better make it Ariose--I would like to be buried in my silver shirt and velvet blue tunic--*gulp* if there's anything *left* to bury...*_

"Joren? Are you listening?" Both men were staring at him, and the blonde boy realized he'd been asked a question.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear, m'Lord?"

"I asked," replied Paxton in the same even tones, "if you met Duke Turomot in the palace yesterday afternoon."

"I--I may have--" the squire began to mumble.

"Excuse me?" Joren winced at his master's uncharacteristically sharp tone.

"Yes, m'Lord." Paxton nodded, sipping at his tea unreadably, piercing eyes never leaving Joren's.

"And did you say to him what he has repeated to me?" Joren's heartbeat thudded in his throat, making speech nearly impossible. He wiped perspiration from his temples.

"Perhaps," he whispered inaudibly. "I might have said something to that effect, maybe--"

"Speak up," commanded Sir Paxton emotionlessly. "And don't mumble, it isn't attractive." He took another gulp of tea. "Just answer 'yes' or 'no'!"

Head spinning, heat beating like an out-of-control timpani, Joren found himself unable to look away from his knight-master's face. _*Disappointment,*_ the boy realized. _*He honestly expected better from me?*_ "Yes," he admitted softly, feeling something like shame and something like regret.

Silence.

The two men exchanged looks. Joren swallowed, heat thudding in anticipation. At last Paxton sighed.

"Joren," he began, his expression deepening his valet's guilt, "I have tried so many times to teach you this lesson, but nothing I do seems to help you understand. Since you refuse to stop behaving like a child, all I can think to do is punish you as I would a child."

Joren had a sinking feeling he wasn't talking about time-out. 

Paxton set his teacup and saucer onto the sitting table, rose, and disappeared into his bedchamber. When he returned, Joren's heart nearly stopped.

A _belt._ He was carrying a _belt_. That meant only one thing. Paxton took a high-backed chair from the dining table and scooted it around, taking a seat. "Pull down your breeches," he ordered softly. His tone lacked any anger or disgust, but sounded forlorn at the necessity of what he was about to do.

Surely he was joking? "B-but m'Lord," began Joren, looking wildly between him and Turomot. "You can't. _Can't._ I'm too old--"

"Do as I say." Softly. Firmly.

But Duke Turomot was right _there_, for Mithros' sake! "But--he's--Duke Turomot is--"

"_Do as I SAY!"_

Sir Paxton _never_ shouted. Not during Joren's many tantrums. Not even after the trial, with Joren in disgrace and Paxton's name sullied by affiliation. Not even _before_ it, when the knight had spent hours--days--in front of Joren's closed door at Stone Mountain Castle, calmly convincing the boy who'd bitten off more than he could chew to come out and face the charges. But he was shouting now.

_*Looks like I've bitten off more than I can chew AGAIN,*_ thought Joren, as his shaking hands sought to untie his belt and pull his breeches to his knees. He could handle this. His father flogged him all the time, hoping to draw words--of anger, of pain, of apology, of anything--from his taciturn son's lips. _*Just grab your ankles and bite your lip and it's fine,*_ thought Joren, but as he began to bend over Sir Paxton stopped him.

"On my lap."

"_What?_" Hadn't Sir Paxton ever flogged anyone before. "That's not how you whip someone. They grab their ankles and--"

"Maybe not," Paxton interrupted. "But it _is_ how you spank a child."

It was then, lying vulnerably across Paxton's lap with the knight's arm pressing against his back to keep him in place and Turomot just staring at him, that the fear really began to set in. And the shame. Joren's breath came in hitched gasps and his heart hammered so hard against his chest it hurt. His thin cotton undergarments were of such delicate weave as to provide no protection at all. His entire body shook as Paxton ran his hand across the boy's back soothingly.

"Please learn from this," his knight-master whispered, almost pleadingly, and the punishment began.

***

"I'm _not_ sorry," muttered Joren rebelliously, shoving his fists into the pockets of his worn-out green coat. Twilight, and rain was pouring onto Corus in sheets, complimenting Joren's mood. It pleased him to pretend it was rainwater trickling down his pale cheeks; the alternative was nothing if not disgusting.

They _weren't_ tears. Sure, he was embarrassed as hell to have been beat like _that_, but he wasn't like Garvey, who cried at every tiny thing. Hadn't Joren passed him just this morning, and seen his eyes all red and swollen? Garvey bawled like a little girl without the slightest provocation; he sobbed at mournful ballads and had cried his eyes out when the two of them had seen a furry black chunk of road kill all decked out in a hand-knit doggy sweater on the highway. He'd done the same when Joren's adopted alley-kitten Amelia died, tears streaming from his eyes all through the mock funeral Paxton had arranged.

//_You cried too,//_ an internal voice reminded him. //_They were so sweet to you, too.//_

"Shut up," snarled Joren. "I'm pissed off at them, remember?"

_//Weren't you feeling guilty just a minute ago? Or was it ashamed?//_ Joren wished the voice had a tangible form so he could harm it.

"Ashamed at being spanked like a three-year-old, not at saying those things to Mr. Walking-Deathbed. And I was only feeling guilty 'till that _person_ whipped my ass."

_//Well, now you're even.//_

"You are so..." he didn't finish the sentence, suddenly noticing the odd looks he was receiving from the few other pedestrians on the street. "Anyway," he whispered, slipping into an alley to finish the mental conversation in private, "he didn't have to do _that._"

_//Well, you aren't going to do it again, are you?//_

"No..."

_//Isn't that the purpose of punishment?// _After a moment of silence, it added, _//And no, it _isn't_ possible to give your conscience the silent treatment.//_

"Conscience, huh? So what are you doing here _now_ instead of _before_ I went and got myself in trouble with Turomot? Or for that matter, before I went and got the Lump's maid kidnapped? Or even when I bullied those kids as a page? Or when--"

_//Maybe with your ass in pain it's somehow affected your ears and made it possible for you to actually _listen _to me.//_

"Hnn." He trudged on wearily, footsteps tracing the labyrinth of streets and alleys that comprised Corus, with no particular destination in mind. _*I can't go to Laurent's; I just came from there. Garvey's pissed at me, can't go to his place--Zahir I don't even want to ~think~ about--and no way in hell am I ever stepping foot in _that_ man's home again.*_

_//Oh, cut the man a break for Shakith's sake. He loves you, he did it for your sake, and it probably ~did~ hurt him more than it hurt you.//_

"My ass begs to differ."

_//Besides, you need him. He's the only father- figure you speak to.//_

"_Formerly_ spoke to."

_//You--! Be nice to the poor man. He cares about you. Paxy was trying to correct you, not break and kill you. Don't be so angry. He's probably right at your bedroom door right now, with your favorite meal, begging you to come out and have something to eat. He thinks you're still there--he knows you better than you know yourself and even ~he~ wouldn't guess you'd escape through the window, considering it's 150 feet off the ground.//_

"You're joking. I've been walking for hours. Even Paxy--I mean, _that man_--would have figured out by now I'm gone.

***

"Joren, please come out." Paxton knocked again softly at the door. No answer. The blonde knight looked down at the plate of home-cooked mutton chops he'd prepared and sighed. He'd meant to teach the boy a lesson once and for all, not to gain his eternal hatred. If Joren was this mad, he probably wouldn't forgive Paxton within either of their lifespans. After all, the boy hadn't spoken to his parents in seven years--Paxton was forced to wonder if the incident leading to that particular grudge wasn't in some way similar to this one. Since Joren as a rule did not speak to his real father, Paxton had become something of a surrogate father to the boy, and loved him as he would his own son. Being of a more sensitive nature than the lord of Stone Mountain, the blonde wasn't sure he could bear the thought of Joren not speaking to him.

"I know you're hungry," he prompted once again. "You've been in there for _hours_." The knight attempted to waft some of the steam rising form the mutton through the door crack. "I've fixed your favorite--mutton chops with steamed vegetables and wild rice. I'll even let you have some of my red wine, if you want?" There was still no reply. Wearily the knight slumped down and leaned his back against the door. No way would Joren escape without his knowing...

to be continued...

/* Sorry this thing disappeared for a bit. The admin of ff.net took it off but didn't tell me why, and hasn't responded to my emails. I'll assume they wanted it rated higher, like R, so I'm reposting it under that and hoping they don't kick me and the story off, but the actual content level won't change or anything. Sadly all my reviews were lost : ( and I had 98 too! Almost a hundred! I won't lie, I like reviews. So you can help me out of my writer's block by helping me reach another hundred *grin* BTW the punishment wasn't supposed to be some weird pedophilic thing, just a mean thing. And this story can now be found at **** under the fanfiction section.


	12. Nocturne

Fairy Tale

Nocturne

Joren rapped at the huge oaken door of the townhouse, drawing as close under the overhang as he

could to avoid the rain, now coming down in torrents. The peeping window slid open to reveal a suspicious 

pair of black eyes. "Yes?"

"Tell your master his favorite pupil is here with an emergency," ordered the boy lazily, rising to his 

tiptoes and leaning against the door until his eyes were mere centimeters from those of the doorman. "And 

make it snappy!" 

The window snapped shut and the door swung open with such alacrity that Joren lost his balance and fell sprawled onto the floor. Propping himself up with a scowl and haughtily ignoring the snickering Bazhir, Joren glared at the shaggy figure whose hand still lay on the doorknob.

"Snappy enough for you, Joren?" asked Sir Myles mildly, shutting the door.

"It isn't polite to make visitors fall on the cold, hard, probably uncleanly floor," Joren snapped, picking himself up and dusting off his tunic.

"Nor is it polite to go knocking on people's doors at 2 in the morning and expect them to rush to your every beck and call," countered Myles.

"I notice you didn't seem to be especially busy elsewhere."

The knight sighed and massaged his temples. "Boy, I swear you would quarrel with the wind. Did you say something about an emergency?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. _I_," he proclaimed, throwing his head back, an arm across his face and striking a dramatic pose, "am in desperate need of hot chocolate and a place to spend the night. Oh, and also the rest of my life."

"Running away _again_, Joren?" 

"_This_ time it's for permanent," replied Joren confidently.

"That's what you said the _last_ five times. Well, let's see," murmured Sir Myles, scratching his beard. "I can help you with the first two; as to the third, I'll check with the Institution for the Mentally Impaired in the morning." Ignoring Joren's less-than-polite gesture, he turned and beckoned for the blonde to follow him into the living room. They entered a large room with book-lined walls, several plush chairs and sofas, and a roaring fire. "I don't think I've got any hot chocolate on hand. Will herbal tea do?" He gestured for Joren to sit in a large, red velvet chair.

"Do I _look_ elderly?" retorted Joren, ignoring the offered chair and gracefully flopping onto the sofa facing the fireplace. "How about some wine?"

"Do I _look_ senile? You're still a minor," returned Myles. "What about hot cider?"

"What _about_ it? So I'm too young to drink but not to young to sleep with strangers for information?"

"I give up!" Myles threw his hands into the air and started to stalk away. "Nothing is good enough! Nothing will do! Nothing meets his standards! Nothing can suffice! Nothing--"

"Is it alcoholic?" Myles paused in the doorway and turned to stare at Joren, who smiled back innocently, lolling on the couch resting his head on the pillows.

"I refuse to answer that."

Joren shrugged. "I suppose it will do," he replied condescendingly, in the tones of one bestowing a great favor. "If it's all you've got."

"Well," replied Myles humbly, "I'm so grateful that there is something in my poor abode that will satisfy the immense standards of His Royal Highly Selectiveness. Jamil, my good man, make haste to the kitchens! We would not want our good Joren to be forced to actually wait for his drink, especially one of such meager quality, although it is all we have to give." The Bazhir standing outside the doorway bowed 

and disappeared.

"Do I detect a hint of sarcasm?" Joren sounded mildly offended.

"No, of course not." Myles rested his hands against the arm of the couch behind Joren's legs. "So, could you happen to tell my why I'm always the one to be graced with your divine presence, instead of some other unworthy mortal?"

"Why, because you're my favorite, of course," exclaimed Joren with a cheerful smile. "Plus, with the others it's just weird."

"Weird."

"Yeah. Like, at Master Tkaa's, everything tasted awful. Nothing against rocks, but gravel stew and igneous sandwiches just aren't my thing. And at Hakuin's, he made me eat raw fish and sleep on a mattress that didn't even have a bed with it! And at Sir Raoul's--"

"You went to Sir Raoul's house?" Joren nodded. "Wasn't Keladry there?"

"Yeah."

"And it wasn't the least bit...awkward?"

The boy shrugged. "A little. They kept giving me strange looks the whole time. And they said I had to cook, but then they didn't like peanut-butter-and-licorice sandwiches so they ordered out for Jindazhen food instead. And that stupid dog stood guard at the couch where I slept the whole time like I was going to attack them in the middle of the night or something. But you don't have a dog!" He smiled up sweetly at Sir Myles, who made a mental note to purchase a dog in the morning.

"Maybe I'll get a dog," he replied mischievously.

"Great! Then I can bring Ariose over and they can play." *_So it's true,*_ decided Sir Myles. *_There _is_ no way to stop Joren.*_

"Well, your cider will be out soon. I have some business to finish up but once it's done I'll come down and chat with you." Joren nodded and closed his eyes as Myles left the room.

+++

He must have fallen asleep, because he awoke to find himself being molested by a red-headed prostitute. "AAAUUUGGGGGGHHHHH!! What the hell are you _doing_?!!!" The woman looked up from where she had pulled Joren's trouser legs all the way back to his thighs and was engaged in a rapt contemplation of his legs.

"Calm down, laddie-buck, I was jist takin' a gander at yer shanks." She gave him a playful slap on the thigh. "With a pair like these, ya'd make a great whore, kid!"  
"Wha...a...a...?" Joren was at a loss. The red-head nodded.

"Sure would. Between them shanks an' yer lamps an' hair, it's a good thing yer not in that line-o'-work or I'd be outuva job! You'd 'ave lines o' fellas all the way down Main Street! Prolly a few girlies, too." She winked lustily.

"But I-I-I'm--I'm a boy!" He didn't like the direction of this conversation. The prostitute leaned over giving Joren a _very_ good view of the contents of her shirt and whispered conspiratorially,

"Jist b'tween you an' me, boys are th'most popular with men." Before Joren could reply or scream or run for help, Sir Myles walked in.

"Did I hear a scream of terror? Oh, it's you two." He took in Joren's defensive curled up position, the woman's leaning over him, and the boy's eyes which were as wide as saucers. "Rispah, leave him alone. He's disturbed enough as it is without you traumatizing him, believe me." The prostitute--Rispah--pulled back and gave Myles a big wink.

"I was jist tryin' to recruit 'im, Myles. Wouldn' he live the rest of his life in luxury, if he took up a certain line of work?" Myles looked over at Joren's exposed legs long enough and speculatively enough for Joren to yank his trouser legs back to his ankles.

"Yes, you're right. But he's from Stone Mountain, he's always lived his life in luxury. Besides, he doesn't need customers, he's got his own king."

"A king, huh?" Rispah grinned at Joren wolfishly. "I'm impressed. But I though Jonny was all hot an' heavy for Pax--"

"Not that king," interrupted Myles. "The prince of Kangen is entirely enamored with our blonde here." Joren flushed as Rispah let out a whistle.

"Royalty, huh? I guess there's a lot t'be said for a noble's ambition!" She laughed and gave Joren a hearty slap on the back, which it took him a few minutes to recover from. "But why blondes? Jonny's lover-boy is blonde, this prince's boy is blonde--" she pulled playfully at Joren's hair, which had mostly fallen out of its ponytail--"and the most o' the popular strumpets in the business're blonde too, though they weren't usually born that way, if y'get my drift. It makes a red-head feel unwanted."

"Oh, not at all," Myles reassured her. "Red-heads are popular. Jonny liked Alanna, Alanna liked the Shang Dragon, Keladry of Mindelan likes Cleon, and Joren here has the cutest crush on another red-head."

"Excuse me?" choked Joren. "I do _not!_ I don't even know who you're talking about!"

"Well, I guess you _could_ say his hair is brown, if you like. It's kind of a mix."  
"Ooh, what's his name?" asked Rispah, poking Joren in the stomach. "Do ya call him honey-pie? Cupcake? Your cuddlebug?"

Joren's glare of disdain lost some of its effect due to the dark crimson blush staining his cheeks. "I don't call him_ any_ of those things! And Garvey's hair is ginger, not red or brown!"

"So you _do_ know who I'm talking about!" declared Myles triumphantly.

"_Ginger_, huh?" teased Rispah. "Not red, not brown, not reddish-brown--_ginger_. That's _sooo_ adorable." She pinched Joren on the earlobe. "So, lover-boy, have ya told yer cuddlebug you like him?"

"No!" exclaimed Joren. It took him a moment to figure out why the two adults were grinning at him like a couple of loons. "Be-because I _don't_!" he blustered. "He's--I'm--we're just friends! There is nothing--_nothing--_else. That's all. Just friends." They were still grinning madly. Why--oh yeah. "And he's _not_ my cuddlebug!"

Rispah cooed. "Isn't puppy love the cutest thing?"

"Indeed," replied a voice from the doorway. A very familiar voice. Once which Joren did not want to hear just now. "You should 'ear the way 'e gushes on and on about this Garrrvey when 'e is with me. 'e must be quite the young man." The name rolled off of Laurent's tongue like a succulent dish as he stepped into the firelight. "Philippe! Myles told me you were 'ere. I apologize for not coming down sooner; I was 'eld up with work, you see." The Kangen slipped between Joren and Rispah, which the boy was unsure whether to consider a blessing or a curse.

"So _this_ is your prince," grinned Rispah, eyes running along Laurent's figure hungrily. "Ya sure know how ta choose 'em!" Joren shrugged and shrunk down in his seat, having decided to avoid all future conversation. He appeared to be surrounded by the three people in the universe it was impossible for him to converse with.

"Well, the two of you have already met Garvey," pointed out Myles, offering a cup and saucer to Laurent. "He was over here just this afternoon, if you recall."  
"Ahh, you mean that sad little boy?" asked Laurent, accepting them and taking a careful sip of tea. "'e was so 'eartbroken, though. Philippe said 'e was very cheerful."

"Cheerful until Joren tore his heart to pieces!" the knight corrected.

"You don't have to make it sound so happy!" muttered Joren, forgetting his decision. "Besides, I didn't have a choice. And you know what else?" He was getting a bit upset now. "He just broke all these vases that I had to go with Sir Paxton to buy, and do you have _any idea_ how impossible boring it is to go vase-shopping? With Sir Paxton?"

"Speaking of which, why are you 'ere instead of with Sir Paxton?" asked Laurent. Joren sank back down again and muttered inaudibly into his mug.

"Joren has run away," Sir Myles informed him. The Kangenesian prince nodded.

"I see...and why did you break your friend's 'eart, Philippe?"

"I _didn't_," muttered Joren balefully. "I just told him I couldn't go with him to the Summer Festival."

"And why not? Ya'd make such a cuuute couple!" exclaimed--well, you can guess.

"'cause I'm going with Laurent!"

"Ahh, I'm flattered, Philippe! Isn't 'e the sweetest boy?" Laurent wrapped his arms around Joren and pulled him in for a hug. "But, my love, I only wish to 'ave you for the first night of dancing. The rest you may of course spend with Garvey! You only 'ad to ask." He ruffled Joren's already mussed hair affectionately. "Besides, I leave for 'ome in a few weeks; the Summer Festival lasts longer than that. You must find your friend and tell 'im, Philippe."

"I'll think about it." Joren stifled a yawn. He was getting so sleepy...but of course that stupid prostitute was still yammering away.

"So, you two are gonna dance? Ain't the nobles gonna find that kinda fishy?"

"They will not know, my good Rispah. Philippe will be in a dress with his 'air let down; they will think him to be the most beautiful girl at the ball! Oh yes, Philippe! The day after tomorrow is the first night of the Festival, so tomorrow we shall go to Lalasa's shop and get the final adjustments to your dress, alright?"

"Nnn..." Joren was already asleep, head resting against Laurent's shoulder. The black-haired man smiled.

"I think Garvey will not recognize 'is friend in two nights' time. But perhaps I will allow 'im the first dance with my Philippe, non?"

to be continued...

/*  I am sorry it's late, please stay tuned, review and I love you!  */


	13. Waltz

// These characters belong to Tamora Pierce. The plot and OCs belong to me : )

// This chapter contains slash and a swear word.

Fairy Tale

Waltz

She wasn't human. She couldn't be. No mortal woman could have such flawless creamy skin the pallor of ivory, or such luscious, perfectly curved lips the velvety texture of rose petals. She must have been an elven maid to possess that fine head of soft white down, brushing the tips of finely curved eyebrows and baby blue eyes, braided about her head like a crown, and left to twist and fall down her back like white velvet snakes. Who but a nymph could look simultaneously like a thing of nature yet wholly otherwordly in a gown of the palest spring green, wide silk sleeves elegantly flaring, neckline of the shoulderless garment embroidered in tiny delicate silver flowers. The dress narrowed at her slender waist, tied by a velvet dark green ribbon, and the hem of the skirt tapered into layers of thin wispy fabric at her dainty ankles to reveal two feet clad in white slippers. A choker in black velvet encircled her pale throat like a collar. No human girl could possibly look so deliciously divine.

But a human boy...maybe.

"They're staring," whispered Joren, clinging to Laurent's arm as the couple entered the crowded ballroom.

"I know," Laurent whispered back smugly, wrapping his arm around Joren's waist more tightly, smirking at the jealous murmurs the gesture produced. A blush rose to Joren's already made-up face but he refrained from wriggling, as he didn't recognize any faces.

"Laurent, my dear prince!" An elderly man holding a champagne glass in one hand and a trophy wife in the other approached. King Jonathan, at the back of the room beside the punchbowl, had stood up to say something; the guests withdrew their attention from the stunning couple. The man, Duke something or other, drew Laurent into a conversation Joren ignored in favor of looking at the ballroom's extraordinary decor until he heard the topic turn to him.

"I must say, your companion is a most stunning young creature," the duke remarked. "And what might her name be?"

"Ahh, I 'ave been rude. May I introduce Philippe; Philippe, this is Duke Richmonte." The man took Joren's hand and bowed, brushing his lips against it.

"It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my dear," the man smiled.

"The pleasure is all mine," the boy replied, remembering in time to speak in a slightly higher tone than usual. Laurent nodded approvingly at his false Kangenese accent.

"Philippe--a Kangenese name, isn't it?" asked Duke Richmonte jovially. "But I thought it was a boy's name!"

Joren froze. "We-e-e-l-l-l-l, it i-i-s-s-s," he replied slowly, mind racing. He threw a panicked expression at Laurent, who shrugged. "I, ahh, was named after a, ehh, a--'orse! _Oui_, _un chaval de course._" _*Brilliant, Philippe, where the fuck did _that_ come from? A horse, for crying out loud?!*_ The duke and his wife looked puzzled.

"A racehorse?" The woman asked politely. "How fascinating."

"Ehm, _oui__._" Joren's mind cast about wildly. He didn't know a thing about horses; his father was an expert so Joren had intentionally ignored the field. _*Father has a really famous one, what's its name? Oh!*_ "Louis Quatorze! That is 'is name, you see," he added when the couple frowned.

"I thought his name was Philippe?" the Duke commented.

_*Shit! You moron, the imaginary horse already HAD a name! What the hell are you gonna do now, eh?*_

"Philippe is 'is MIDDLE name," he clarified with a dazzling smile. The couple blinked rapidly and smiled hesitantly in return. _*Oh, you _are_ brilliant,*_ his voice muttered.

"And how did your parents come to name you after a horse's middle name?" inquired Lady Richmonte, sipping from her champagne glass.

"Well, I, ahh," _*Well, shit.*_ "Louis Quatorse is my father's favorite 'orse because 'e wins many races--the 'orse, not my father--" _*Gods, I need some of that alcohol...*_ "and, and, err, my _brother_ is named Louis! And they, ahh, did not want two children of the same name! Yes, yes. I mean _oui_." Duke Richmonte and his wife looked slightly dazed. Laurent's wide mouth was twisted intoa grin and he looked ready to burst into laughter at any moment.

"How very...fascinating," murmured the wife, slowly recovering.

"Yes," Laurent agreed proudly, "Philippe is always quite...entertaining." He grinned wolfishly down at Joren, who was fighting to resist the urge to slug him, and took a swallow of champagne from the glass he'd taken during Joren's discourse. Joren chose to ignore him and examine his fingernails. There was an akward silence for a moment.

The trophy wife was the first to resuem the conversation. "Your date certainly has a beautiful voice," she ventured. "It's so low and husky, almost like a boy's."

"Oh, Philippe is a boy," laughed Laurent. The couple laughed in turn.

"I'm sorry, I thought you said she was a boy!" chuckled Duke Richmonte.

"Haha, I did," chortled Laurent. "He is." The couple's laugher stopped immediately and they stared at Joren, who blushed the color of the festive crimson wall decorations.

"'e's, ahh, 'ad a bit too much to drink," he exclaimed, pulling the glass from the prince's hand, downing it in one pull and tossing it at a passing maitre'd. "_Excuse moi,_ I must go, ahh, sober 'im up. _Bon soire!_" He grabbed Laurent's arm and pulled him away.

When Joren judged he'd put enough distance between themselves and the Richmontes, he whirled to face his lover. "Just what in the seven hells were you _thinking_?!" he hissed. Laurent leaned down to wrap Joren in a tight embrace.

"Speak in the accent again, _mon__ cher_," he whispered, breath tickling Joren's ear. "It is..._enrapturing..._"

"NOT here," growled Joren, pushing Laurent away. "Let's get something straight--"

"But _that_ is no fun!" interrupted Laurent, reaching over to squeeze the boy roughly on the rump. Joren pursed his lips.

"As long as I'm dressed as a _girl_," he whispered sharply, "we will both pretend I am a _girl._ Because nobody here knows a _girl_ who looks like _this_. But if they learn I'm a _boy_, they'll know it's _me,_ because _I_ am the only _boy_ who could possibly _look_ this _good._ Got it?" Laurent didn't reply, only gazed at him dreamily. Joren snapped his fingers in front of Laurent's face. "Hey! Are you listening?"

"Mm?" Laurent blinked slowly. "Were you saying something, darling Philippe? Your eyes are so breathtaking when you are angry..." he began to kiss a trail up Joren's neck. The boy's scathing retort was cut off whena tall gentleman he recalled seeing at numerous other court occasions approached.

"Good evening, your Highness," the man remarked. "I hope you are enjoying the Summer Festival Ball?"

"You 'ave no idea!" exclaimed Laurent enthusiastically. The gentleman gave a puzzled glance in Joren's direction.

"I thought I had seen you in the company of another young man? A brunette? Where might he be?"

"Another?" Laurent arched a friendly eyebrow. "You must be mistaken, this is a young lady." Joren smirked. _*Ouch, looks like one of Myles' lads slipped up. Let's see how he'll recover.*_

The errant spy was in luck. "Oh, there he is!" he exclaimed hastily, reaching into the crowd and pulling a harassed-looking Nealan of Queenscove out.

"Ahh, Nealan! There you are. I believe you promised me a dance?"

"But your Highness," protested Queensvoce (looking fairly handsome himself in a high-necked velvet green tunic that matched his eyes, shoulder-length hair bound in a black ribbon, and knee-high black boots), "You already have a da--" He glanced at Joren and his jaw struck the marble floor.

_*This could be really fun or really humiliating,*_ thought Joren, and witha graceful smile blooming over his fair features decided to go for the former.

_"Enchante,"_ he whispered silkily, extending a delicate hand to Nealan, who looked torn between vomiting and drooling. As Laurent recited the introductions, Nealan lifted Joren's hand to his lips and kissed it gently.

_*Fuck_,*thought Nealan. _*If I didn't know her true identity, Madmoiselle Philippe would be the new object of my fantasies--make that wet dreams."_ He gulped as the blonde withdrew his hand gently and favored Neal with a wink. _*Though if he keeps this up, it may not make a difference...*_

Joren smiled wickedly to himself as Laurent dragged a reluctant Queenscove onto the dance floor. _*Heh. Women want me, men want me...that Rispah-woman was right. I can quit Guillaum's and take up--Hold it! What am I thinking? Eh, I need a drink. Sure hope somebody spiked the punch...*_

*****

Kel had been fooled at first, but not for long. She had to admit, Joren made a spectacular girl. Totally hot. Enough to make her consider taking up lesbian tendencies, even. But there was something about the fair maiden's aristocratically bored expression, the unspoken dismissal to all who would dare approach, and the way she would stare vacantly into space as though deep in thought and then suddenly laugh--it was immistakeably Joren. But what he was doing in a dress, she had no idea.

_*And do you care to explain why you've memorized all of Joren's little personality quirks?*_

_*Know thine enemy,*_ Kel thought defensively.

_*Suuuuure. Know thine enemy's cute ass is more like it.*_

_*I'm ignoring you,*_ she replied coldy, and strode purposefully toward the punch bowl.

"And don't _you_ look stunning this evening?!" she exclaimed cheerfully, helping herself to a cup of punch. "Having a good time, Joren?"

"Um, it's Philippe," the blonde replied softly, sipping his. _*Is that Kel?! She looks...* _His eyes trailed over the soft pink gown and slippers, the elegant pearl necklace and the Yamani chopsticks holding back her shining brown hair. She'd lost weight since he'd last teased her, and gained a few inches as well as a couple of other, ahem, things...She looked absolutely _*Not bad. But how'd she know? I'm screwed...*_

"Riiiiiight. Philippe. I must say, you're the most beautiful girl in the ball," she went on brightly. "Speaking of girls, why are you dressed as one?" Joren glanced around nervously; no one was within earshot. All anyone saw was two girls socializing.

"How'd you know?" he asked, lowering his voice and dropping the accent. Was it obvious? The last thing he needed was public exposure.

Kel smirked. "Wanna know? I believe you have some information _I'd_ like as well."

"Huh?" That's right, she wanted to know if Nealan's preferences were as twisted as his mind. "So it's blackmail, eh?"

"Don't be so dramatic. So do we have a deal?"

"Sure thing. You go first."

"Sorry, Philly. I'm not _that_ gullible."

"Fine," Joren sniffed. "You wanna know the truth? Queenscove and I _aren't_ a couple. The only thing that whole conversation last week had to do with sex was whatever your own gutter-trash mind put in it." Kel scowled but looked relieved at the same time. "But," continued Joren, "that doesn't mean he's not fruitier than a Carthakian mango dancer. See for yourself." He pointed behind her.

Kel turned around just in time to see Laurent and Neal waltz past her, the prince's hand placed firmly over the boy's rump. The couple was garnering quite a few stares--neither looked even remotely feminine--and to hide his hotly flushing face Nealan had buried his face into the taller man's shoulder, serving to further the illusion of intimacy.

Kel turned back, face reddening. Joren smirked. "Soooo, my turn. How'd you know I was a boy, eh Mindelan?"

Kel took a breath and smiled frostily. "For a start," she ground out, "your tits are crooked." Joren gasped and looked down at his bosom. "Oh, let _me_ help you with that!" Kel exclaimed, reaching into his gown and grabbing one of the falsies, then chucking it with the skill of a shotput expert into the center of the ballroom. "There. All fixed."

to be continued....

/* 

Me: Darn Author So&So! They haven't updated in a month!!

Joren-muse: And the last time you updated was....?

Me: Uhm...

Joren-muse: *checks ff.net* Hmm, looks like August 7th. HMMM.

Me: .......*cries*

So, thank you for all of the wonderful, wonderful, wonderful reviews! I give you all collective kisses!! Special ones for The Blind Assassin, Micky, myst-of-nyte  and also to the girl who emailed me! I love email. I love reviews! And I've sufficiently tortured my Joren-muse so the ideas are flowing quite nicely. Next chapter hopefully out soon! (I know, I said it last time too...hehe) */


	14. Cadenza

// These characters belong to Tamora Pierce. The plot and OCs belong to me : )

Fairy Tale

Cadenza

"Stupid ugly hateful bitch!" The door to the ladies' washroom slammed. "That horrible, ugly idiot…ugly ugly UGLY!" Gods he hated her. In his vocabulary, 'ugly' was the worst insult possible, and since it couldn't be applied to him--appearance-wise, anyway--that gave him priveledge to use it on whomever he chose. Namely Kel.

Ugly hateful bitch that she was.

With a humph he shoved the jelly-filled sack into his brassiere, examining his false appendages carefully in the mirror to ensure total "symmetry." The door opened and shut again, this time admitting a couple of older blonde girls.

"Oh, did you find your earring?" the taller of the two asked, upon seeing Joren.

"Oh, yes," the boy replied in falsetto.

"What awful luck, to drop it in the middle of the dance floor," the shorter girl added. "But after you screamed, all of the men got down on their hands and knees to look for it."

_*Heh heh. And nobody noticed me grab the _real_ missing item. Gods, I'm clever.*_ "Men," he laughed aloud. "They are so sweet, are they not? Hahaha…"

"You know," the first girl added thoughtfully, "I don't think they know you found it. Everyone's still out there looking for it…"

"What?" Joren cracked open the door and peered out, to see most of the male contingent of the crowd on its hands and knees crawling over the ballroom floor engaged in search. He shut it quickly.

"They can be so amusing, non?"

The girls reapplied their facepaints, chatting amicably, then left, giving Joren time to adjust and readjust his falsies, touch up his paint and blow a kiss to his reflection in the mirror.

"Go get 'em, tiger. Rowr!" he purred, reaching for the door knob, when a stifled sound reached his ears. _*Someone's in here?* he_ panicked. _*Did they see what I was doing?*_ He glanced around, looking for the source of the sound, when his eyes fell on a scrap of yellow fabric partially hidden behind the furthest sink.

"Hey, you shouldn't spy on people in the bathroom," Joren began, approaching the hidden party. "It's creepy and people don't--" He stopped. _*Oh. Gods. Oh oh oh gods.*_

She.

Was.

GORGEOUS.

A silk, yellow-gold dress billowing over a slight frame. Cinnamon ginger hair snaking down shoulders and framing a clear, lightly freckled complexion. Wide hazel eyes staring up at him from beneath long, caramel lashes. Tears streaking paths down rosy cheeks. Joren's speech left him.

So did his tact.

"You should blow your nose or something, it's kind of gross." 

The girl fell into a fresh wave of sobbing. Frantically Joren knelt down and tried to calm her. "Sorry, sorry, didn't mean anything by it! Don't cry, I'm sorry--look, would you calm down already?!" Her sobs slowly subsided and Joren grabbed a washcloth and offered it to her in leiu of a handkerchief.

"I'm s-sorry," she sniffled, wiping her eyes. "It's just--just been an awful week. Forgive me for bothering you."

"That's okay." _*Gods, she's hot._* "I don't like dances anyway." He leaned down until he was sitting beside her. "So, what's your name?"

"G-Garnet."

"Like the gemstone?" She nodded. "That's a pretty name. So what's with trying to flood the bathroom?" Garnet blushed, lowering her eyes.

"It's silly, really," she hesitated. Joren nodded encouragingly. "I--I asked this boy I really like to come to the Summer Festival with me. I thought he liked me back, but I was wrong."

"He turned you down?" Garnet nodded, tears springing into her eyes once again. "It's okay," Joren murmured consolingly. "I'm sure he didn't mean it badly. I mean, who wouldn't want to go out with a cute girl like you?" Garnet gave him an odd look. _*Idiot! Don't come on as a lesbian if you want her to like you as a guy!*_ He stood up.

"I have to go find my _boy_friend now," he apologized, with a certain emphasis on 'boy.' "Are you going to be okay?" Garnet smiled and rose. _*Damn, she's taller than me. Hope she doesn't notice…*_

"Yes, I feel better. Thank you so much, I hope we see each other again soon."

***

"Auuggh! That jerk! I'd like to wring his scrawny little pretty-boy neck!" Kel kicked over a bird bath for emphasis. She had wandered into the gardens adjoining the ballroom, which remained vacant for time being. Fortunately. "Grr!! That pompous, smart-assed, arrogant self-absorbed little snot!"

"Oh, do you know Joren too?" Kel turned to see a woman lounging on a stone bench, red lace skirts fanning out around her legs. The woman smiled, all wine-red lips and glossy black curls. "He's in my shift at Guillaum's."

"How'd you know…"

The woman laughed. "Arrogant smart-ass pretty-boy? Have you _seen_ the men around here? Joren's the only one who even remotely qualifies as pretty."

"The only one? Mad'moiselle, you can be too 'arsh." A young man with sandy blonde hair appeared behind Kel on the garden path, approaching the woman and resting beside her, arms wrapping around her waist.

"I meant local boys, then," the woman amended. To Kel, she inclined her head gracefully. "My name is Claudia, and this Kangenese gentleman is Lord Blaise."

"Keladry of Mindelan," Kel returned shortly.

"Oh, the Girl?" asked Claudia. "I wondered what you'd look like. I guess Joren was lying about the beard."

_"Beard?!"_ Oh, she was going to kill him. No doubt. Blaise chuckled.

"You're talking about Philippe, yes? You must admit, 'e is stunning tonight. 'is majesty has excellent taste."

"His majesty?" repeated Kel dully. What did the king have to do with this?

"Prince Laurent of Kangen, my sovereign," Blaise replied. "'e is that dark-'aired chap leading your friend around. You see, 'is majesty wanted very much to attend, but does not care much for women. But you Tortallans are so--'ow can I say it?--unapproving of such things. So 'e found a boy beautiful enough to be a girl and simple dressed 'im up."

"So that was the prince," murmured Kel thoughtfully. That explained Joren's newfound hobby of dressing in girls' clothes. "Then why is he dancing with Nealan?"

"Are you talking about that boy?" a new voice asked. An older man, mostly bald but trim, appeared on the sidewalk, holding a champagne class. "Poor lad. Not even a spy deserves that. 'e's not even dressed for the occasion. Devaux," he added at Kel, by way of introduction. He had the same accent as Lord Blaise.

"Spy?" Kel was thoroughly confused.

"The tall one, with brown 'air?" asked Blaise. "'E was supposed to flirt with our Majesty to get information out of 'im. This is 'is punishment, non?"

"Of course, the little one 'as to dress up as a girl," the older man replied. "Per'aps that is worse?"

"Is that one even a spy? I cannot tell. Of course, it does not matter at all, you know?" Kel sent a bewildered glance at Claudia, who shrugged and leaned into Blaise's chest.

"So, Nealan isn't actually gay and is only pretending to be so he can get information?"

"What does being 'appy 'ave to do with it?" asked Blaise, mystified. "But yes, 'e is only pretending to wish for our Majesty's affections."

"I think per'aps 'e would be much 'appier without them right now, oui?" chortled Devaux. Blaise and Claudia laughed. Kel bowed hurriedly.

"Please excuse me, there's somewhere I have to go."

***

"Let me die. Let me die. Let me die." Nealan chanted his mantra softly as finally the Waltz from Hell ended and Laurent released him from his embrace.

"Did you not like the song, Nealan? Per'aps we could dance to a different one instead?"

"NO! Err, no, that's alright, thanks anyway." Gods, he just wanted to get _out_ of here. If Kel had seen them, he was doomed.

"Well, well, it looks like Garvey owes me five nobles." Zahir sauntered up beside Nealan and Laurent, a smirk borrowed from Joren pasted over his face. "I knew you'd show us your true colors before the summer was over. It's awfully hard to hide it. Not that you did."

Nealan's face reddened to a dark shade of beet. "What are you babbling about, Alhaz?"

"Just a little bet to see how long 'til you admitted to having an 'alternative lifestyle,' shall we say?" 

"Tortallans can win money for such things?" Laurent was fascinated.

"NO. And I'm NOT," growled Nealan.

"There you are, Laurent. Come on, I'm thirsty." The girl Zahir had seen earlier with the Kangenese prince, the one that looked like Joren in a dress, appeared beside Laurent and took him by the arm. She glanced at Zahir, blushed beet red, and muttered an excuse to leave. When both had gone, Nealan breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank the gods _they're_ gone. What are you smirking about?"

"Apparently you're so ugly you turn even gay men turn straight." He put up a defensive hand before Nealan could retaliate. "But at least I got ten nobles out of it!"

"Why?"

"I bet Cleon you'd only last one dance before he got tired of you."

"_Cleon__?_ That traitor!"

"And another twenty from Jesslaw--the older one. Loudmouth. He thought you'd come in a dress yourself with a friend or get one of your's to dress up to go with you. Because really, nobody's so much of a loser they'd come all alone." The tribesman grinned ferally. "But I had complete faith in you."

"What sort of messed up gambling addict are you?!" Nealan shrieked. "Anyway, it's not like _you've_ got a date." At that moment a tall, ginger-haired girl approached them, taking Zahir by the hand.

"Who's your friend, Zahir?" she asked, looking at Nealan from large hazel eyes.

"Just a loser who has no date," sighed Zahir dramatically. "We should pity him." The girl looked at Nealan sympathetically.

"You stupid--AUGH! Nevermind, I'm not going to deal with you." He turned to stride away when Zahir grabbed him by the pony-tail.

"Just to settle my curiosity, is that tunic velvet_,_ or velve_teen_? Because Lord Wyldon and I were--" Nealan let out an enraged roar and stampeded away. Zahir blinked.

"You know, you might ought to seek some counseling for this whole gambling thing," suggested the girl.

Zahir shrugged. "I have a bet with Joren that my family can become as wealthy as his within the year. I have to start somewhere_._" He noticed his date's face fall at Joren's mention. "Are you alright? Where were you?"

She smiled. "I was in the bathroom--ladies', of course. I was crying about Joren, you know, and this girl who looked a lot like him came in and cheered me up." She laughed. "I think she might have been coming on to me or something. But she looked so much like him."

"Did she figure out your umm, secret?"

"No, but I almost gave it away! She asked my name and I nearly said 'Garvey,' but I said 'Garnet' instead at the last minute."

"Quick save, man."

"Thanks. After all the trouble of dressing up like a girl, it'd be a shame to give it away in a careless moment."

***

"Excuse me, your Highness? King Jonathan wishes to speak with you. It shall only be a moment." The Prince bowed to the courtier and set down his champagne glass.

"Alas, duty calls," he sighed. "I shall be back right away, alright, Philippe?" 

"I eagerly await your return, my prince," Joren retorted. Laurent ruffled his hair fondly and vanished into the ballroom. Joren stood alone in one of the myriad hallways outside, wandering back and forth along the corridor.

"There you are." _*Gods, _her_ again. Maybe I'll give her a piece of my mind…*_ He turned around, smirk in place, to face Keladry of Mindelan. But before he could open his mouth, she marched up toward him, pulled him down by the shoulders and kicked him very firmly in the groin.

"Oh my stars," he gasped weakly, dropping to the floor.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that for," Kel told him, and stomped away.

After a few minutes of gasping on the marble tile, Joren shakily stood up. He turned at the sound of whispers, but couldn't quite place them.

"Is that her?" Were they talking about him?

"I think so. Let's go!" Before Joren could react, strong hands wrenched his arms behind him and a sweet-smelling cloth was shoved over his mouth and nose. He struggled in vain--couldn't concentrate--got dizzier and dizzier until the hallway disappeared and was replaced with blackness.

***

"Joren? Come on, please come out. You must be really hungry…" Sir Paxton knew Joren had to come out one of these days. He couldn't just stay trapped in his room for the rest of his life, could he?

to be continued…

/*         Sorry sorry sorry it's late…I made it super long though! (kinda)

Thanks and free toasters to those who reviewed.  So please everyone review again or for the first time and you'll have my undying love!  At least until next chapter : )  

*/


	15. Chantey

//These characters belong to Tamora Pierce.  The plot and OCs belong to me.

//In this chapter there is some swearing, mention of adultery, and a really lousy joke aimed at the Japanese (aka Yamani)

Fairy Tale

Chantey

            "Kidnapped?" gasped Sir Paxton.  "How could that be?!"

            "I know, it is a terrible thing," agreed Laurent.

            "But it's impossible!" Paxton continued.  "How could they have gotten into his room?  I was right there the entire time!"  There was an uncomfortable silence until King Jonathan cleared his throat.

            "Yes, well, let's all be seated and discuss this matter."

            The assembled parties trooped into Sir Paxton's living room.  Jonathan took an armchair while Laurent, his men, the Lioness and Sir Raoul relegated themselves to the sofa and floor.  Paxton sank into the remaining armchair.

            "Just how did all this happen?" he asked weakly.

            "The two of us were in one of the 'allways when a page approached me and said that King Jonathan wished to speak to me," Laurent began.  "'owever, when I responded, 'e said 'e 'ad sent no messenger.  I returned to where we 'ad been and Philippe was gone."

            "Around what time would you say this was?" asked Alanna.

            "I 'ad just 'eard the clock ring one when I was called away.  It was a quarter past the hour when I returned."

            "My squire saw him between those times," Raoul added.  "She said it was around five after."

            "Did she see anyone else?" Jonathan inquired.

            "Yes, she saw a Yamani gentleman an exchanged words with him."

            "Yamani?"  Blaise, lounging against the leg of the couch, straightened.  "The Yamani are enemies of 'is 'ighness."

            "It is possible that they are to blame," Devaux agreed.

            "According to the papers the dockmaster gave us, a Yamani ship left at dawn this morning," Alanna muttered, shuffling through a stack of papers.  "This ship is the Mermaid Scar, Captain Takahashi."  She looked up.  "It's a member of the Imperial Fleet."

            Jonathan frowned.  "If that's our ship, we've got an international incident on our hands."

            Paxton wrung his hands worriedly.  "But is the appearance of this man your Lump—er, your squire saw the only thing we have to go on?  That could just be a coincidence."

            "Well," said Laurent, "I also received this ransom note."  He withdrew a crumpled piece of paper from his vest pocket, unfolded it, and read aloud:

_Prince Raurent of Kangen_

_Your woman is in our custody.  If you compry to our demands we wir rerease her; if not she wir be sord as a srave or kired.  Prease disband your miritary immediatry._

            The company blinked, digesting that message.  "I think," said Jonathan after a moment, "there is a fair chance that the Yamani is our culprit.  The first course of action should be to take after that ship."

            "Have Joren's parents been notified?" Paxton asked, an expression of horror coming over his features.

            "No, they couldn't be reached.  They're off 'replenishing the family fortune,' whatever that means," Raoul answered, scowling at the looks of relief on both Paxton and Jonathan's faces.

            "Thank god for small favors," breathed the king.

***

            Joren blinked slowly, his surroundings slowly coming into focus.  He was in a small, musty room filled with ropes and barrels.  The air tasted of salt.  "That's strange.  If I didn't know better I'd say I was in a ship's cargo hold," he muttered.  The room gave a sudden lurch as an explosion somewhere rocked the structure.  Sounds of yells, the clashing of steel and the occasional splash reached Joren's ears.

            _*That's strange.  If I didn't know better, I'd say you don't know better,*_ chimed that annoying voice.  Joren tried to stand, only to realize that manacles bound his feet to the wall.  At that moment the door to the cell slammed open, revealing a mangy-looking man, a pirate by the lack of hygiene and fashion sense, with an eye patch and a mouthful of rotting teeth.

            "Hey there, pretty," he lisped with a Rainy Isles lilt, "You got any sugar for Papa, huh?"

            _*Just great,* _Joren snarled to his voice.  _*The only thing worse than waking up in a cramped cargo hold on a ship manacled to the wall and having no idea how you got there while wearing a dress and false tits and being hit on by an extremely disgusting pirate who wants to have sex with you is—oh wait.  There IS nothing worse!*_

_            *Of course there is,*_ the voice replied logically.  _*It could be raining.*_

            Another explosion ripped away the ceiling above their heads, and as Joren and the pirate stood gaping at the new skylight, huge drops of rain began to dribble from the angsty grey sky.

            "I fucking HATE you!" Joren screamed.

***

            "Your Majesty, I have the report from the Lioness."

            "Wonderful, Zahir!  What does it say?"

            "There's good news and bad news, my lord.  The good news is they've found the ship."

            "What's the bad news?"

            "There is no ship."

            Jonathan straightened in his throne and looked severely at his squire.  "Come again?"

            "There is nothing left of the Mermaid Scar.  The Lioness and crew found some wreckage, some survivors, and some corpses.  The ship was attacked by pirates and all the goods, including a particularly delicious and ravagable friend of mine, were taken to a new home."

            Jonathan scratched his beard.  "Do they have any idea which pirate?  Anyone we've heard of?"

            "Absolutely, your Majesty.  Juli the Red."  The king swore.

            "Her?!  Of all the luck, it has to be the most wanted pirate in the entire ocean.  The one the combined efforts of the navies of Jindazhen, Yamani and the Rainy Isles can't catch.  Burchard will never sleep with me again!" he wailed.

            Zahir raised his eyebrows.  "Excuse me, my lord?"

            Jonathan cleared his throat.  "Speak.  I said Burchard will never speak to me again.  Not that it's any of _your_ business," he added haughtily.  "Now begone, I need some time alone."

            "Your Majesty, there's the small matter of finances."

            "What?"

            "The ship didn't have Joren AND he was taken by pirates.  That's 500 nobles, if you recall."  Jonathan scowled, untying his purse and throwing it at his grinning squire.

            "There.  Now get out!"  Zahir slipped from the throne room, shutting the doors softly behind him.  He turned around to find himself facing the queen.

            "You heard?" he asked in a low voice.

            She nodded, a scowl touching her red lips.  "Every word.  _Every_ word," she repeated when the Bazhir arched an eyebrow at her.  She dropped a 100-noble piece into his hand.  "Though why he needs Burchard when he's already got Paxton is beyond me.  I mean, sure he's a dish, but his arrogance is practically a tangible force!"

            "Like father, like son," agreed Zahir.  "But that family is like opium: terrible and addictive."

***

            "Opium?" offered the second busty redhead Joren had encountered that week, waving a jar in Joren's face.

            "No thanks," he scowled, jerking his hands in frustration against the ropes that had him tethered to the wall.  The lady pirate shrugged, dropping the jar and picking up the two flags from her table, one with the Yamani crest and another depicting a mermaid with a jagged cut across its torso.  She hummed jauntily to herself as she pinned them to the walls, which were already covered in an assortment of flags of all colors and sizes.

            "I'm a collector," she explained, seeing Joren's confounded expression.

            "Really?  My father's a collector.  Of _stamps._"

            "Really?"  She looked impressed.  "Those postal ships have great security."

            "That's not what I meant!"  She smiled at him and bent down, affording him a magnificent view of her ample cleavage, swathed in silk though it was.

            "You're cute," she whispered, breath tickling his face.  "So cute that I'm sure you don't need these!"  She reached into his dress and snatched the falsies.

            "Whaaat?!" Joren yowled.  "You can't—wait, you knew I was a boy?"

            "I have my ways," she replied mysteriously, and opened a chest brimming with other false appendages.  She stacked Joren's neatly on top.

            "So…I'm guessing you have more than one collection?" hazarded Joren.  The piratess laughed.

            "You haven't seen the half of it.  I suppose you ought to know that you're the newest addition—or you will be."

            "Oh?"  Joren was beginning to get nervous.  "And what might I be the addition to?"

            She winked.  "Why, my harem, of course.  What better place for a most beautiful spy, my darling Philippe?"

to be continued…

/*  I'm so sorry for the delay!  I had the rough draft of it on my comp, which was struck by lightning, only to be rewritten in my notebook, which was lost during my move from Texas to New York.  So, uhh, please review ^^;;  */


End file.
